Margaret woke late, her first thought being that she had overslept. Her daughter and grandson would rise any moment, and breakfast was not ready. Then she remembered—they had left yesterday. She had even seen them off at the train station herself. Margaret rose slowly and shuffled toward the bathroom, her usual morning routine of planning the day’s tasks abandoned. Today, her mind was filled only with thoughts of her daughter and grandson.
She missed them terribly. The last time they had visited was for her husband’s—their father’s and grandfather’s—funeral, two and a half years ago. In that time, Oliver had sprouted so tall he nearly matched her height. If they waited another three years to return, she might scarcely recognise him.
If only they lived nearby, they might see each other more often. How many times had Margaret begged her daughter to move back? Divorced now, what kept her in that other city? Then again, she understood—Emily had grown accustomed to independence, to running her own life. She never should have left Manchester in the first place.
Margaret had disliked her son-in-law from the start. A quiet man, barely uttering a word unless prompted. Impossible to know what he was thinking. In the end, he had only wasted Emily’s time—the marriage collapsed regardless. Margaret sighed.
Now they were trying to sell the flat. Better if that good-for-nothing ex-husband had simply paid Emily her share in cash. They could have bought a small one-bedroom here; Margaret would have moved into it, giving her own flat to Emily and Oliver. But the man had dug his heels in, his parents whispering in his ear. *If only Peter were still alive,* she thought. *He’d have sorted this mess in no time.*
She washed her face and studied herself in the mirror. Emily was right—she had let herself go. Grey roots crept through her hair, her face lined and weary. When Peter was alive, she had taken care of herself. Now, what was the point? Only the occasional neighbour stopped by. The ringing telephone pulled her from her thoughts.
Rushing to answer, she remembered—Emily and Oliver should have arrived home by now.
“Emily, did you get back alright? Oh, thank goodness… I knew you would. I’ll try not to dwell on missing you. But do think about moving here… No, I’m not pressuring you. Just reminding you—time slips away, and I’m not getting younger. It would be easier for you both if I were around… Don’t shout—”
Her daughter’s temper flared, but Margaret had no desire to argue. Her mood was already in the dumps. She ended the call on a lighter note, then made the bed, continuing the silent conversation in her head. *Always the same. She’ll decide for herself, just as she always has. If only Peter were here…*
With a sigh, she drank her tea, took her blood pressure pills, and decided against procrastination—today, she would visit the hairdresser. Perhaps it would lift her spirits. She had grown used to solitude after her husband’s death, but now, with the guests gone, she barely held back tears.
The young stylist worked meticulously, the rhythmic snip of scissors nearly lulling Margaret to sleep. The result was striking—a short, modern cut, her hair dyed ash blonde to hide the roots. The transformation shaved ten years off her appearance. She admired herself in the mirror, vowing never to neglect herself again.
At home, she lingered before the mirror, pleased. In better spirits, she opened her laptop. Before the New Year, she and Oliver had gone shopping—she had bought him a new one despite Emily scolding her for spending so much. Oliver, overjoyed, had kissed her and gifted her his old laptop, setting up a social media profile for her. They had used an old photograph from twenty years ago as her profile picture. She ought to take a new one—but later.
Scrolling through her feed, she spotted a notification. A message, as Oliver would say. Someone named William was thrilled to have found her and asked her to reply.
She enlarged his photo but didn’t recognise him. Probably a stranger drawn in by the youthful picture—a common ruse. Still, though hesitant, she asked how he knew her.
An hour later, they were deep in conversation. He was William Ashford, an old classmate. As proof, he sent a photo of their Year Eleven class, circling himself and her in red.
At last, she recalled the quiet boy from school. She barely recognised herself in the photo—so much time had passed.
Days flew by in relentless messaging. Then Sarah, another former classmate, reached out. They had shared a desk. Sarah’s profile picture was another flattering relic of youth.
Margaret remembered how, during a maths test, Sarah had begged for help. Margaret had solved Sarah’s problem but ran out of time for her own—earning Sarah an A and herself a C. After that, she refused further help. Sarah had taken it as betrayal.
*She was always spiteful,* Margaret thought. But grudges were pointless now. She replied. Her circle widened; loneliness faded. How had she ever lived without the internet?
A month later, William suggested meeting.
“We live in the same city and haven’t seen each other in decades. This must be rectified. Ladies, name the time and place.”
Margaret hesitated. The idea of facing aged, changed faces unnerved her. Relieved she had freshened up, she proposed a quiet café—neutral ground, no obligations.
She considered a dress but settled for trousers and a warm jumper. A touch of makeup, a pinch of blush—she liked what she saw.
Outside the café, her nerves spiked. *Why did I agree?* But it was too late. She stepped inside, spotting a man waving from a corner. A plump blonde sat with her back to the entrance—Sarah Whitmore, unmistakable.
Sarah had bleached her hair in school to match her surname and never stopped. She looked well, despite the weight—which Margaret pointed out at once.
Then she turned to William. The distinguished, silver-templed man bore no resemblance to the shy boy she remembered.
“You haven’t changed. I knew you at once,” he said, pulling out a chair. She appreciated his tact—better to let Sarah scrutinise her than him.
True to form, Sarah offered a barbed compliment. Silent resentment simmered beneath her smile.
William ordered wine. All three were unattached. Margaret was stunned to learn how many classmates had passed.
By evening, Sarah was drunk, clinging to William as they left.
“Call a taxi,” Margaret urged. “You can’t take her on the bus.”
“Why me? What about you?”
“Should *I* escort her home?”
“Drop her off, then I’ll walk you—”
A taxi arrived. Sarah tumbled inside, dragging at William’s sleeve, slurring declarations of love. He wrestled free, slamming the door with her address.
“You know where she lives?” Margaret asked.
“Yes.” A pause. “She was my wife.”
Suddenly, Sarah’s hostility made sense. She wasn’t just flirting—she wanted him back.
Walking home, William confessed.
“Married foolishly after school, divorced a year later. She’s had two husbands since but still tries to reclaim me.” He stopped. “I fancied you back then.”
“We’re here. Thank you for walking me,” Margaret said.
“Invite me up,” he blurted.
“And Sarah?” She smirked. “We’ve had our coffee. Go home—better yet, take a taxi.”
Inside, she closed the curtains. Had she expected him to linger like a lovestruck boy? At their age, with creaking joints and tired hearts? She decided to ignore his messages. Sarah’s venom wasn’t worth inviting.
For days, she avoided the laptop. Curiosity won. William had apologised—the wine, his forwardness. He *had* fancied her. Sarah knew and had manipulated him into marriage. If Margaret wasn’t interested, he’d step back.
She sensed his hurt. *Let him be.* What did she need with this mess? Perhaps Emily and Oliver would visit soon—no time for old flames.
Sarah’s messages were spiteful—accusing Margaret of sabotaging her out of petty school rivalry. *Fat chance.* Margaret bit back a retort.
Silence followed. Two weeks passed. Concerned, she messaged William—no reply. A week later, she tried Sarah.
“Satisfied? He’s in hospital—nearly gave him a heart attack,” Sarah snapped.
“How is that my fault? I gave him no hope. Which hospital? I want to explain.”
Reluctantly, Sarah relented.
William brightened at her visit. Margaret was blunt—she had enjoyed their chats but wanted no romance. Too late for that. Sarah loved him; they should cherish what they had.
He must have told Sarah, for the next day came a warning:
“Stay away. He’s *mine*. You’ve had your husband, your daughter, your grandson—I’ve no one but him.”
“Good luck. I wish you both well,” Margaret replied drily.
*What a soap opera.* She never imagined inspiring jealousy at her age. A haircut had upendedMargaret closed her laptop softly, thinking how strange life could be—how a simple change could unravel old wounds, stir forgotten hearts, and yet, in the end, bring her back to the quiet hope of her daughter’s return.
