Margaret woke feeling unwell that morning. Snow was falling heavily outside, and she was relieved she’d gone to the shop the day before—today, trudging through drifts with her aching legs would have been too much. Her blood pressure seemed high again, so she took her pill, lay on the sofa, and closed her eyes.
*Why am I just lying here? I should be making the soup,* she thought, but she couldn’t muster the strength to move.
It was tradition—her son, Edward, and his wife, Emma, always came for lunch on the first of January. Back when Edward was little, they’d bring the grandson too, and the first thing he’d ask when stepping inside was, “Mum, did you make soup? I’m sick of salads.” Margaret decided she’d rest a little longer, then start cooking. There was time. She focused on herself—her head did feel a bit better.
She opened her eyes and looked at the portrait of her husband on the wall. She’d hung it there deliberately, so he’d be the last thing she saw at night and the first in the morning. Seven years had passed, yet she still hadn’t grown used to his absence. She often spoke to him, staring at that picture.
“Terrible without you, George,” she said aloud.
*Remember when you came home empty-handed on my birthday? You’d hidden the flowers under your coat on the rack, taking your time just to tease me. Then you claimed you’d lost your pay packet—said someone stole your wallet while you shopped for gifts. Oh, how cross I was! Deep down I knew it was a trick—your cheeky sense of humour always caught me out.*
*And stubborn! Once you set your mind to something, you’d never let go. I was already working out how to manage the month without money when our guests arrived—Edward and Emma, your mate Nigel with his wife, my friend Pat. We poured the wine, you gave a toast, then handed me a little box with gold earrings. It was my fiftieth—and I was so furious, I nearly threw them at you. And you? Just laughed, delighted you’d fooled me again.* Margaret shot the portrait a reproachful glance.
*And that time you pretended to drop your keys in the snow! We searched for ages—even the neighbours came out to help. You must’ve planted them just so I’d find them. Never did confess, even when I asked. Too proud to admit the joke in front of the others?* Her silent conversation with George carried on.
He listened attentively from the frame, serious in this rare photograph. Usually, he wore that mischievous grin. Margaret sighed and sat up. Her headache had faded.
She went to the kitchen and began making the soup, each step sending a dull ache through her knees. As she stirred, she remembered…
***
It was a warm August day. Young Margaret sat before the mirror in her white wedding dress while her friend Pat styled her hair—Pat was training as a hairdresser in town. Margaret couldn’t settle, shifting between smiles and quiet stillness.
Her groom would arrive soon, yet she wavered—had she done the right thing, listening to her mother?
*”Robert’s family is steady, their home secure, and the lad’s a hard worker. Who else in our village would you marry? The city lads have their pick,”* Mum had insisted.
So Margaret agreed. Twenty was old enough to wed. Pat praised the dress and Robert, but tears pricked Margaret’s eyes. She kept listening for a car outside, half-hoping each passing engine wasn’t his. Then one stopped by the house, a door slammed, and she tensed. Her heart beat like a trapped bird’s wings.
Pat rushed out to meet the groom, demanding a token for the bride. Mum stood firm on the doorstep…
But Margaret wasn’t thinking of what a bride should. Instead, she remembered yesterday’s errand to the shop, where she’d met George. After his army service, he hadn’t returned to the village—gone straight to the city to work. She hadn’t seen him in years.
He’d grown broader, not classically handsome, but striking—utterly changed by city life. His intense stare made her blush and look away.
*”You’re too late, lad. No use staring—she’s not yours. Marrying tomorrow,”* the shopkeeper, Mrs. Higgins, had chided.
*”We’ll see about that,”* George smirked, not dropping his gaze.
Margaret barely recalled buying anything. Outside, she could finally breathe—but his look lingered in her mind.
Now, the haggling at the door stretched on. Then suddenly—it swung open. Not Robert stood there, but George.
Margaret leaped up, heart pounding wildly. Mum tried to block him, grasping his shirt sleeve, while Pat just watched, stunned. George broke free, stepping close.
*”I can’t live without you. Will you come with me? Now?”*
She couldn’t speak. He swept her into his arms and carried her out, Mum and Pat barely dodging aside. Margaret clung to his neck, resting her head on his shoulder—as if this was always meant to be.
That was how George stole her from the altar. The village talked for ages. Even Robert came later, drunk, swaying on his feet. He stared at them, then left without a word.
George later admitted confronting him: *”You won’t keep her. I’ll take her anyway—better kill me now.”* Robert, no match for George, backed down in fear.
They married and left for the city, first sharing a cramped flat, then moving into George’s factory-provided home. Early days, they slept on a mattress on the floor—yet were so happy. Two children came—a daughter married abroad, their son nearby, the grandson soon finishing university. Margaret never regretted running off. They’d loved fiercely.
And George never stopped his pranks. She’d scold but fall for them every time. Even when his heart began failing, he’d joke it was just another trick to make her fuss. Yet she saw his pain, wept, and fussed anyway. The ambulance took too long—another snowstorm, roads buried. He never made the hospital…
***
Margaret swallowed her tears and turned off the hob. Why this rush of memories? Her head throbbed again, little hammers at her temples. She returned to the sofa and lay down.
*”Seventh New Year without you, George. Edward and Emma will come tomorrow, but their lives are their own. He’s so like you—reckless, full of laughter.”* Fresh tears blurred her vision—she could’ve sworn George’s portrait shifted.
*”Don’t cry, Maggie.”*
She startled, pain flaring anew. Rubbing her eyes, she saw the portrait unchanged. A trick of the mind?
*”Hearing voices now? Going mad?”* she wondered.
*”Still teasing me? Even from beyond?”* she asked gently. *”How is it, love? Do you miss us? Your legs ever ache? Mine do—this cold is agony.”*
*”Here, we’re all young, Maggie. No pain.”*
She sat up, dazed. *”I’m imagining this.”*
*”I’m tired without you.”*
*”Show yourself, then. Or can’t you? Only good for scaring me?”* She groaned, rising. *”Need my pills, or I’ll—”*
The room spun, pressure crushing her skull. Darkness crept in as she collapsed back. Fading, she saw George—young again, just like that August day.
*”Hold on, love. It’ll pass. Come, it’s time.”* He reached for her.
She wanted to ask where, to say she couldn’t move—but only a whimper escaped.
Then the pain vanished. Lightly, she stood, taking his hand. The flat, the snow outside—gone. Warm, glowing light wrapped around them, filling her with peace. It was sweet, and a little frightening, just like when he’d carried her in his arms all those years ago…
The next day, Edward and Emma knocked endlessly before fetching the spare key.
Margaret lay still on the sofa, serene as if sleeping. A full pot of soup waited on the stove.
After the funeral, Edward hung her portrait beside George’s. In it, she smiled—as though she’d finally found what she was looking for.
