“Could you call Lydia, please…”
All morning, Jennifer had a nagging feeling that something was about to happen. But in truth, everything that was meant to happen already had. Love, family—now she was alone. Her husband, with whom she’d spent thirty-six years, had passed two years ago. Her son was married with two children, all healthy and well. It was just a sense of anticipation, she realised. Tomorrow was Mother’s Day.
And then she remembered her husband. No one would bring her daffodils or tulips now. Though, what was she thinking? Her son, Edward, would surely visit with flowers.
They used to have a cottage—a small place in the countryside, bought years ago after weathering financial storms. While she worked, she’d visit on weekends or during holidays, but after retiring, she practically lived there all summer, only returning to town for errands.
That last summer had been dry and sweltering. She watered the vegetable patch every evening. Her husband came down on Friday as usual, but something about his pallor unsettled her.
“Just tired, it’s muggy,” he’d waved off her concern.
“Rest, then. I’ll finish up. Sit on the bench in the shade,” she’d told him.
He sat, leaning against the sun-warmed wall of the cottage, watching her water the plants. When she finished and walked over, she knew instantly. He looked like he was dozing. But when she touched his shoulder, he slumped sideways. He had died in his sleep on the bench.
She sold the cottage that autumn. Couldn’t bear to go back. Kept imagining him sitting there. Her son supported her decision.
“Should’ve done it sooner. Why kill yourself over a few vegetables when everything’s in the shops year-round?”
He and his family preferred seaside holidays anyway. The money from the cottage sale she gave to him—with two kids, he needed it more. Her pension was enough. She’d considered going back to work, but Edward talked her out of it.
“Won’t earn more than pennies, and the stress isn’t worth it,” he’d said.
Her husband had always said the same.
“Teaching these days? You’d need nerves of steel. If you miss it, tutor the grandkids. I’m here if you need help.”
So she lived alone. Of course, she missed having a man’s hands around—fixing taps, moving furniture. But Edward arranged handymen when needed.
The later years with her husband had been peaceful. Early on hadn’t been easy—rows that nearly ended in divorce. He’d been discreet in his affairs, but women always knew. One day she’d snapped, told him to pack his bags.
He had, sitting on the sofa with his suitcase. Then Edward came home from school—thirteen, sharp-eyed. Took one look at the suitcase and understood.
“Hate me?” his father had asked.
“Yes,” Edward said, slamming his bedroom door.
“I can’t do this.” Her husband clapped his hands on his knees, stood, and shoved the suitcase behind the sofa. “Supper ready?”
She was exhausted. Didn’t matter if he left today or tomorrow. Let him go while they were at school. She set the table, called Edward. They ate in silence.
Next evening, she dawdled home, bracing for an empty flat. Heart sinking, she checked behind the sofa—no suitcase. Then spotted it on the top shelf. Rushed to the wardrobe—his shirts still hung there. Relief.
When he returned, she couldn’t resist a jab: “Unpacked too soon.”
He never stayed late at work again. Fights dwindled. Last years were tranquil. If only they’d had that earlier.
She preferred remembering the good. What use was bitterness? Resentment had died with him. Sometimes loneliness gnawed, but it passed.
Alone had perks. Less cleaning—who’d make a mess? Simple meals. More time for books and shows. He’d hated her dramas, glued to football or news. She’d hunched at the kitchen table, neck stiff, watching a tiny telly on the fridge. Now she sprawled on the sofa like royalty.
Maybe a cat? But the fur… And she wasn’t really an animal person.
Tomorrow was Mother’s Day. A cake? Who’d eat it? Edward would visit. She leafed through her recipe book. Flowers? Glanced around—no, they’d only deepen the gloom. Flowers should come from a man. And what for? To toss them in two days?
She baked chocolate and orange muffins—the grandkids adored them. Edward could take them. Tired, she dozed off during a rerun.
The doorbell startled her. Nobody visited anymore. Heart fluttering, she smoothed her hair and opened the door.
A stranger stood there, holding tulips. Not handsome—around her age, neatly dressed, salt-and-pepper hair, solid but not overweight.
“Who are you looking for?”
“Lydia, please,” he smiled.
“No Lydia here. Never has been. Wrong flat.” She moved to shut the door.
“Wait!” he said. “This is Oak Street, number twenty, flat—”
“That’s my address. But no Lydia,” she repeated.
His smile faded. “That’s impossible.”
“It’s not. I’ve lived here decades.”
“I must’ve mixed it up,” he said, disappointed.
“Sorry.” She closed the door.
Strained silence. She switched on the lamp—warm light, steadying. Then the bell rang again. She checked the peephole.
“Still you? I told you—”
“Please, I’m not a thief,” his voice muffled.
“How would I know? Leave or I’ll call the police.”
“At least take the flowers. No sense wasting them.”
She opened up. He held out the tulips.
“I’m not lying. Lydia gave me this address, but I lost the note.”
“Call her.”
“Number was on the same paper.” He shrugged. “I’ll go.”
“There’s a hotel nearby,” she offered.
He thanked her, trudged downstairs.
Odd. All evening she puzzled over him, the tulips in a vase. She’d never know about this Lydia.
Next morning, rain-sleet outside. The tulips had bloomed overnight. When the bell rang, she knew.
“Come in,” she said.
He brightened, set down his duffel bag.
“Hungry?”
“Wouldn’t say no.”
Over food, she asked about Lydia.
“Not much to tell. I’m from Brighton. Had a place there. Lived in York with my wife till she got ill. Doctors said move south. Sold the flat, bought a house. No kids. She passed eight years later. I was forty-eight, alone.” He glanced at her. “You understand.”
“Then?”
“Started renting a room. Hoped to meet someone. But holidaymakers wanted beach boyfriends, not me.” He smiled wryly.
“Then Lydia?”
“Came with her daughter. Liked her straight off. But she wouldn’t move south, I wouldn’t leave. Said I’d wait. She wrote her address… Then I lost it. Waited a year. Broke my leg. Came now—no Lydia.”
“She might’ve lied. Married, maybe.”
“Probably.” He sighed. “We didn’t even introduce ourselves—Andrew. Andrew Lewis.”
“Lovely surname. I’m Jennifer. Not quite Lydia, is it?”
His smile warmed his eyes.
After, he prepared to leave.
“Too early for your train,” she said.
“Need to walk. Clear my head.”
He looked crushed. Came all this way for nothing.
“If you ever fancy the seaside,” he said suddenly, “you’re welcome. Bring your family. Just ring ahead.”
“I’ll think about it,” she said, suspicious. Was she his backup plan?
“Not like that,” he said quickly. “Just an offer. No strings.”
He left. Before she’d cleared the table, Edward arrived—flowers, kisses. Noticed the smaller bouquet.
“Who’s that from?”
She told him.
“You let a stranger in? Could’ve been a conman!”
“He was harmless. Heartbroken, even.”
“Well… if he’s decent…” Edward mused. “You should get away. No more slaving at that cottage.”
“Maybe.”
It had been a proper holiday, even with the mystery. Like a TV drama. Funny Lydia gave her address. Or had he misremembered?
She eyed the two bouquets—small local tulips beside showy Dutch ones. Mixed them together. Better.
No, she didn’t want complications. But something nudged her—his ringing her door wasn’t chance. And she hadn’t seen the sea since Edward was thirteen.
Shade, garden, waves…
Two days later, an unknown number.
“Jennifer? Andrew. Made it home. Just wanted to thank you. Come anytime. I’ll wait.”
Warmth bloomed in her chest.
“Maybe I will,” she murmured, smiling. Just forAnd as the summer sun warmed the garden where Andrew waited, Jennifer, suitcase in hand, stepped off the train, surprising even herself.
