**On Cats, Men, and Daffodils…**
*Imagine, it’s raining outside!* said Rachel, standing by the office window.
*Well, it’s spring—what’s the surprise?* replied pragmatic Natalie.
*True, it’s the first of March. I’m so sick of winter. The only good thing was New Year’s.*
*March is tricky—still snow, maybe even a frost,* added Victoria, the oldest of them at forty-five.
*This morning, I slipped on my way to the car. Bruised my thigh something awful. Still hurts. Want to see?* Rachel turned from the window.
*No thanks!* the women chorused.
*Looks like spring hasn’t cheered Lydia up. She’s working like a robot.*
*Leave her be, Rachel,* Victoria chided.
*Fine, fine. Not like it’s the end of the world. I’ve been dumped three times—still kicking.*
Rachel caught Victoria’s disapproving look and stepped back.
*Seriously, though. A bloke left her. He’s not dead—alive and happy. She should be glad for him.*
Lydia stood abruptly and walked out. No matter how much time passed, she couldn’t forget him, couldn’t reconcile it.
At first, Lydia had focused on her studies—no time for boys. She thought she’d have her fun later, that there’d be plenty. But life moved on—friends married, divorced, remarried—while Lydia never had a serious relationship.
Then she met Daniel. She thought, *This is it. Real love, the ideal I dreamed of.* She fell so hard she couldn’t imagine life without him. She’d been over the moon when he proposed. They filed for a wedding right before New Year’s, so the photos would sparkle with fairy lights. She promised all the girls they’d be invited. She’d even picked out her dress.
Then, in early December, Daniel vanished. A week without a word. When he returned, he looked guilty. Lydia knew instantly something was wrong. Finally, he confessed.
Two and a half years ago—before he’d met her—he’d had a fling with a woman while on a business trip. Maybe he’d promised her something—he couldn’t remember. Then he met Lydia and forgot her. But recently, the woman had called: he had a son, now eighteen months old.
*He looks just like me,* Daniel had run his hands through his hair. *It turned my stomach. It’s not that I still love her. But a child changes everything. I’m sorry. I had no idea…*
At first, Lydia didn’t beg him to stay. She told herself love could overcome anything. But then she realised—it wasn’t just the child. If a man wanted to stay, he would. That meant his feelings for the mother weren’t gone.
Two happy years, full of plans, dreams, love—all gone. His past had claimed him. Lydia knew she couldn’t live with that, even if he chose her. For how long? The past would keep intruding—demands for time, gifts, money for the child…
So, she let him go. But what now? Her dreams had crumbled, and you can’t build happiness on ruins. How could she trust men again? Now, she saw them all as liars.
She drowned her days in work, but nights tormented her.
No matter how hard women fought for equality, without love and children, they weren’t happy. Work wasn’t a substitute. Life’s meaning lay in leaving something behind—raising it well, with a husband. But Daniel already had that. And Lydia? She was just… extra.
Why was she so unlucky? Thirty-two, never married, never truly lived with a man.
Rachel was on her second marriage. Victoria had a family—her eldest at uni. Even plump Natalie had married last year. Only Lydia was still alone.
The girls had tried setting her up. But nothing clicked. One was decent, but no spark. Another wanted a fling. A third wasn’t even divorced.
And now, that wretched spring holiday. Why the fuss over flowers and gifts? You could give flowers any day, not just because the calendar said so. At least it was a bank holiday—no work, no need to see smug men with bouquets of daffodils, tight buds wrapped in rubber bands to keep them from blooming early.
Meanwhile, the wife would slave in the kitchen, fix a meal, dress up. Then sit, exhausted, watching her daffodils wilt in the warmth—just like her curls, styled that morning. Her husband would wolf down dinner with a pint, eyes half on the telly. Their son would barely eat before vanishing into his room, glued to his phone.
And yet, Lydia envied them. She’d give anything for that life. A family at the table, a little bouquet once a year…
She caught her reflection in the mirror. Not ugly—presentable. So why no happiness? People said she was too picky. But reckless love was behind her. No more *love in a cottage*—when mistakes could be fixed, when life stretched ahead.
At thirty-two, she didn’t want to start over. And a man past thirty wasn’t a boy. If he had nothing to his name, how could he be head of a family? Take responsibility?
She ran her hands under the tap, pressed wet palms to her cheeks. The irritation faded. Blotting her face, she smiled. *Thirty-two isn’t fifty, right?*
Back in the office, the women fell silent. *Gossiping about me, then.* She sat and returned to work.
*Lyd, we’re doing cake and fizz on the 8th. Chipping in £10 each. Accounts are joining. You in?*
Lydia knew the talk would be flowers, husbands, gifts.
*I promised Mum I’d visit,* she lied.
She wasn’t going. Dad had died four years ago, and Mum had a new bloke. No room for her.
*Told you,* Rachel crowed.
*Right, girls, back to work,* Victoria cut in.
On the 8th, the office buzzed with festivity. The women flitted about, laying out snacks—work forgotten. The smells made Lydia’s stomach growl.
*Lyd, go home,* Victoria handed her a box of chocolates.
*You don’t have to—*
*Take them. Have tea, relax. You’ll find happiness—I know it. Ignore Rachel. Things with her second husband aren’t great.*
*Thanks. I’ll head off.*
Lydia didn’t go straight home. She bought wine—it *was* a holiday, after all. Grapes, cold meats… No one to cook for.
In the shop, she felt part of the sisterhood—grabbing treats to wow their families. As if she, too, would have daffodils on her table. So she bought too much, swept up in the frenzy.
Outside, she cursed herself. Who needed all this? No one waited for her. The pavement was either puddles or ice. By her building, her back was damp. *Why did I wear this coat?*
Fumbling for keys, her shopping bag pulling her down, she barely noticed the meow.
Finally free, she reached her door. The meow came again. A grey cat—green-eyed, sleek, but muddy-pawed.
*I’m on the seventh floor. You?*
The cat rubbed her leg, darting into the lift ahead of her.
*Cheeky. A tom, huh?*
He followed her inside, waiting politely at her door.
*Well-mannered, then. Fine. Help me eat this food.*
He devoured the meat and milk, unashamed. She picked him up—*Definitely male. Greedy, bold. Might as well stay.*
She typed up a *Found Cat* notice. No distinguishing marks—just grey, striped, and shameless. Printed ten copies.
*What’s your name? Whiskers? No? Maybe your owner’ll turn up.*
Outside, she pinned them up. Back home, she left the door ajar. The cat bolted inside.
*Scared I’ll lock you out? Smart. But if you pee anywhere—*
He slept at her feet. She didn’t scold him.
Breakfast done, the phone rang.
*You found my Marmalade!* A child’s voice. *How can I get him?*
Lydia gave her address.
Minutes later, a man and boy stood at her door.
*We saw the ad,* the man said.
*That’s our cat,* the boy added.
*How do I know he’s yours?*
*Marmalade!* The boy called.
The cat sauntered out, rubbing against him.
*He remembers me!*
*Why was he outside then?*
*We didn’t let him out. Mum hates cats—said he ran off, but he never would—*
*Right. He’s a homebody,* Lydia let them in.
The boy lifted the catThe cat yawned in the boy’s arms, then blinked at Lydia as if to say, *Well, I suppose this is my life now—split between two homes, but loved all the same.*
