Never Again
After work, Elizabeth stopped by the shop. She didn’t feel like cooking, but she had to feed Emily. She grabbed a pack of pasta and some sausages—her daughter had loved them since she was little. Then she picked up a carton of milk and a loaf of bread.
A short queue had formed at the till. In front of her stood a burly man in a black jacket and a knitted beanie with a bobble. “A grown man in a ridiculous hat like that,” she thought, staring at the gaudy striped pattern. “His wife probably made it. Some women just ruin their husbands so no one else would look twice at them. I bet he’s got the face of a child.”
The man turned and caught her staring. She quickly looked away. “Actually, he’s not bad-looking,” she admitted grudgingly. He glanced back at her again.
“You’ll burn a hole through me if you keep staring like that,” he remarked.
“Not much worth looking at. I’ve got nothing better to do,” Elizabeth muttered irritably.
The queue hadn’t moved. Frustration simmered inside her. And that stupid hat… She wanted to drop her shopping and walk out, but this was the only shop near her house. “Men always take forever,” she fumed silently. “Next, he’ll fumble for change, like they all do.”
Right on cue, the man at the front shrugged off his jacket and began digging through his tight jeans for coins. Elizabeth sighed loudly.
“In a hurry?” the man in the beanie asked, stepping aside. “Go ahead.”
She shrugged and took his place. Finally, he found the right amount, bagged his modest groceries, and left.
When her turn came, the till beeped, but Elizabeth rummaged fruitlessly through her handbag for her card.
“Come on, love, you should’ve had it ready,” someone grumbled behind her.
“Lost your card?” the beanie-wearer asked dryly from a few feet away.
Ignoring him, she kept searching.
“I’ll pay,” he told the cashier.
“No, thanks!” Elizabeth flushed, pulling out her card triumphantly. “Found it!”
She tapped the card on the reader, grabbed her bags, and hurried out, scolding herself. “Why did I care about his stupid hat? If he likes it, let him wear it. I’m such a grump.”
“Everything’s my ex-husband’s fault. We had a good life—or so I thought. Then he left me for some young fool who got pregnant. At least he did the decent thing and married her. Never mind that Emily’s growing up without a father. And I’m nearly forty. Forty! God, that’s old…”
“He kept up the mortgage, at least. Small mercies. Why do we women suffer for men? They all do the same—cheat or abandon us. A few stay faithful, or at least smart enough not to get caught. By forty, they want someone younger. What’s left for us?”
She stepped into the lift just as a drunk man stumbled out, leaving behind the stale stink of cheap beer and cigarettes. “All the same—boozing or chasing skirts. Disgusting.”
The lift jerked to her floor. Emily was at the table, doing homework. She looked up, eyes flickering with annoyance.
“Mum, I need money for the theatre trip. Saturday,” she said flatly.
“I’ll make dinner first,” Elizabeth evaded, heading to the kitchen.
“Always more money. I don’t print the stuff, you know.” Groceries, bills—every penny counted now.
“Mum, the theatre?” Emily stood in the doorway, finger marking her page.
“I’ll get cash tomorrow,” Elizabeth sighed.
Satisfied, Emily vanished.
“Let’s see how long his new happiness lasts. Youth fades. Sleepless nights, stretch marks—he’s not exactly young himself. Serves him right. Granddad age, and he’s starting over. Why am I still thinking about him?”
After dinner, she flicked on the desk lamp. It buzzed, clicked, and died. “Perfect. Bought it last week! What a day.” She tried a new bulb—nothing. “I’ll take it back tomorrow. If I kept the receipt.” She hadn’t.
Next evening, Elizabeth lugged the heavy lamp to the electrical shop across the road. Standing on the step, smoking, was the man in the ridiculous beanie. She shot him a look and marched inside.
He followed her in—and stepped behind the counter. Elizabeth blinked.
“Bought this last week,” she snapped, slamming the lamp down.
“Receipt?” he asked, unfazed. “No wonder you’re single. With that temper.”
“Who said I’m single?”
“If you were, your husband would’ve fixed it. Or brought it back himself.”
“He’s busy. Writing his thesis.” She turned to leave.
“Give me your address. I’ll fix it and drop it off.”
“Fine. Flat 96, opposite the road.”
Walking home, she mused, “I didn’t recognise him without the hat. Clever eyes. Decent, actually.”
Later, she studied herself in the mirror—dull eyes, pinched mouth. “No wonder he left. I let myself go. Enough. Time to change.”
Next morning, she wore a dress and mascara. Emily stared.
“About time. Now get a haircut.”
“Eyes sparkling. Met someone?” Emily teased.
“No one. Just for me.”
At work, compliments lifted her mood. That evening, she cooked potatoes with onions—her ex had hated garlic. “Afraid his breath would offend his little angel.”
The doorbell rang. The shopkeeper—now hatless—held out her repaired lamp. His gaze flicked past her to the kitchen.
“Come in. Stay for dinner.”
He did. Midway, the washing machine flooded. He rolled up his trousers, fixed the pipes, mopped up, and called a repairman for the next day.
“You’re different tonight. Lovely smile,” he said later. “I’m Thomas. Old-fashioned name.”
“Elizabeth.”
“You haven’t had a man in a while,” he observed as he left.
She washed up, thinking, “My ex wouldn’t have lifted a finger. They’re all nice at first. Then they slack off, cheat, leave. Never again.”
But that night, bed felt cold. She muffled sobs into her pillow.
A few days later, she noticed the shop’s light was off. Before she could wonder why, the doorbell rang. Thomas stood there, no hat, holding roses.
Her heart raced.
“Just checking if you needed anything,” he said.
She took the flowers, smiling. “Tea? Or there’s stew.”
A crash interrupted—a bookshelf had collapsed.
“My ex never fixed that loose screw,” she groaned.
“Got a drill?” Thomas asked, already rolling up his sleeves.
By summer, they stood on a train platform, Thomas wheeling a suitcase, Emily chattering about beachside cottages.
A woman can do everything alone—it’s a lie, a bitter myth made by those who never met the right man. Being vulnerable isn’t weakness. It’s allowing yourself to be loved.
After betrayal, women armour themselves, distrusting happiness. But the right man reminds them they’re still worthy, still beautiful.
And sometimes, against all odds, they believe it.
