**Of Cats, Men, and Daffodils…**
*“Just look at this rain!”* exclaimed Rachel, standing by the office window.
*“Well, it’s spring—what did you expect?”* replied practical-minded Natalie.
*“True, it’s the first of March. I’m so sick of winter. The only good thing about it was Christmas.”*
*“March is fickle—snow one day, frost the next,”* chimed in Victoria, the oldest of them at forty-five.
*“I slipped this morning on my way to the car. The bruise on my thigh is ghastly. Still hurts. Want to see?”* Rachel turned from the window.
*“No!”* the women chorused.
*“But our Lydia isn’t cheered by spring. Look at her working away like a machine.”*
*“Leave her be, Rachel,”* Victoria interjected.
*“Oh, fine. As if her heartbreak is the end of the world. I’ve been dumped three times—still alive, aren’t I?”*
Rachel caught Victoria’s reproachful glance and stepped away.
*“Honestly, though. A man left her. He didn’t die—he’s alive and happy. She should be glad for him,”* Rachel persisted.
Lydia rose from her desk and left the room. No matter how much time passed, she couldn’t forget him, couldn’t make peace with it.
At first, Lydia had focused on her studies—no time for men. She thought she had years ahead for romance. But time slipped by. Her friends married, divorced, remarried, while she never had anything serious.
Then she met Paul and believed she’d found real love, the ideal she’d dreamed of. She fell so deeply she couldn’t imagine life without him. When he proposed, she was radiant. They scheduled the wedding just before Christmas, so the tree would glitter in every photo. She promised to invite all the girls. Even picked out her dress.
Then, in early December, Paul vanished. A week passed with no word. When he returned, he looked lost, guilty. Lydia knew instantly. He gathered himself and confessed.
Two and a half years ago, before they met, he’d had a fling on a business trip. Maybe he’d promised things—he couldn’t remember. Then he met Lydia and forgot her. Until the woman called to say he had a son, now a year and a half old.
*“He’s the spitting image of me,”* Paul ran his fingers through his hair. *“Seeing him… it changes everything. It’s not that I still love her. But the child… I’m sorry, Lydia. I didn’t know.”*
At first, she didn’t fight for him. Told herself love could overcome anything. But then she thought: if it were just the child, she might endure it. But a man can’t be kept by guilt. His feelings for the mother must still linger.
Two happy years they’d shared—plans, dreams, a future. Then his past reclaimed him. Lydia knew she couldn’t live with it, even if he chose her. For how long? The past would always intrude, demanding attention, gifts, money for the child…
So she let him go. But what now? How to go on? Her dreams were rubble, and no happiness could be built on ruins. How could she trust men again? Every one seemed a liar now.
By day, she drowned herself in work. By night, memories tormented her.
No matter how women fought for equality, without love and children, they were unhappy. Work couldn’t replace family. Life’s purpose was to leave something behind—not just a child, but to raise it well, with a husband and father. And Paul already had that. A son, a year and a half old. Lydia was the outsider.
Why was luck so cruel? Thirty-two, unmarried, never truly lived with a man as a family.
Rachel was on her second marriage. Victoria had her family, her eldest at university. Even plump Natalie married a year ago. Only Lydia remained alone.
The girls tried setting her up with their husbands’ friends. Nothing came of it. One was decent but dull—her heart stayed silent. Another wanted a fling. A third wasn’t even divorced…
And now this spring holiday loomed. Why the fuss over flowers and gifts? Flowers could be given anytime—not just because the calendar said so. At least it was a day off. No need to face the streets, to see proud men bearing daffodils wrapped in ribbons to keep them from blooming too soon.
And the wife at home, slaving over a holiday meal, dressing up, then watching those daffodils wilt in the warmth, just like her curls, styled that morning. Her husband wolfs down the roast, eyes glued to the telly, while their son, barely touching his plate, locks himself in his room, lost in social media.
Yet Lydia envied even that. She’d have been glad for such a life. A family at the table, a bunch of daffodils once a year…
She caught her reflection in the mirror. Not ugly—everything in place. So where was her happiness? People said she was too picky. But reckless love was for youth, when the future stretched endlessly ahead, time enough for mistakes and corrections.
At thirty-two, starting over felt impossible. And a man past thirty was no boy. If he had nothing to his name, how could he lead a family? Take responsibility for her, for children?
She ran her hands under the tap, pressed wet palms to her cheeks. The anger subsided. She dried her face, smoothed her hair, smiled at her reflection. *Thirty-two isn’t fifty, is it?*
When she returned, the room fell silent. *“Talking about me, then.”* She sat and resumed work.
*“Lydia, we’re meeting on the 8th for cake and chatter. Pitching in twenty quid each. Accounts is joining. You in?”*
She knew the talk would be all about the holiday, flowers, husbands, gifts.
*“I promised my mum I’d visit. She’s expecting me,”* she lied.
She wasn’t going anywhere. Her father died four years ago; her mother had a new beau. No room for her.
*“Told you,”* Rachel crowed.
*“Right, girls—back to work,”* Victoria cut in.
On the 8th, the office buzzed with preparations. The women arrived dressed to the nines, flitting about, arranging food. Work? Unthinkable before a holiday. The aromas were intoxicating.
*“Lydia, go home.”* Victoria slid a box of chocolates onto her desk.
*“Really, there’s no need—”*
*“Take them. Have some tea. I wish you happiness. It’ll come, believe me. Ignore Rachel—her second marriage is rocky. That’s why she’s bitter.”*
*“Thanks. Shall I go?”*
She didn’t head straight home. Stopped at the shop for wine—it *was* a holiday. Bought fruit, sliced meats… No one to cook for.
In the shop, she felt part of the sisterhood, stocking up for a feast. As if she too would have daffodils on her table. Swept up in the frenzy, she overbought.
Outside, lugging the heavy bag, she cursed herself. Why so much? No one waited at home. The pavements were either puddles or ice. By the time she reached her building, her back was damp. Who wore a winter coat in March?
Fumbling for her keys, the bag weighing her down, the strap slipping from her shoulder—then a meow. Too tired to notice. Inside, she jabbed the lift button. It crept down mockingly.
All she wanted was to drop the damned bag. The meow came again. She looked down. A grey cat gazed up with green eyes. Clearly a pet—sleek fur, just muddy paws. She felt like Shrek—gruff outside, soft within.
*“I live on the seventh. What floor are you from?”*
It meowed, rubbing her leg. The lift doors opened; the cat darted in first.
*“Bold, aren’t you? Or are you a girl? That explains it.”*
At her flat, it halted politely.
*“Too well-mannered to enter uninvited? Fine, come in. Help me eat this.”* The cat sniffed around. She gave it meat, poured milk. It ate shamelessly, then demanded more, hypnotizing her with unblinking eyes.
She lifted it, checking. *“Definitely male. Greedy and cheeky. Fancy staying? At least there’ll be *some* man in the house. We’ll see how you behave. First, wash those paws.”*
In the bath, it squirmed but endured. Then dozed on the rug.
*“Not even claiming the furniture.”*
She typed a found-cat notice. No distinctive marks—just grey, striped, and bold. Printed ten copies, woke the cat for a photo.
*“You’re photogenic. What’s your name?As the days passed, the cat, now named Oliver, curled contentedly on Lydia’s lap while she smiled at the text from Dennis—another evening planned, another chance at happiness.
