**The Third Attempt**
Joanne slipped into her white doctor’s coat, settled into her chair, and leaned back, closing her eyes for a moment to steady herself. A knock at the door interrupted her thoughts. “Honestly, can’t they wait?” she muttered under her breath.
Without waiting for an answer, the door cracked open, and a man peered in.
“May I?”
Joanne shot him a stern look.
“Appointments start at two,” she stated crisply, pretending to study an important document.
Moments later, she glanced back. The man’s head was still in the doorway.
“I already told you—” she began irritably, but he didn’t budge.
“It *is* two,” he said, nodding toward the clock between the windows.
Joanne checked—the minute hand hovered at twelve. Time to begin. Her already sour mood darkened further.
“Fine, come in,” she sighed.
The man stepped inside, and as he approached, she assessed him with a practiced eye. No signs of illness—well-groomed, fit, with a complexion that spoke of good health.
“Name?” she asked, reaching for the stack of files on her desk.
“Edward Thompson.”
He sat back in the chair, elbow resting on the edge of her desk. *Typical*, she thought. *Already at home.*
She located his thin file—just two notes from the optometrist.
“How can I help you?” she asked, preparing to send this healthy man on his way.
“Doctor, I can’t sleep. I yawn all day at work, but the moment I lie down—nothing. Or I doze off, only to wake in the dead of night and lie there until morning.”
“How long has this been going on?”
“Two months—since my wife came back. She left me for someone else, and just when I’d adjusted, she returned. I can’t kick her out—we’ve a daughter.”
“Spare me the details. Here’s a referral for an X-ray and blood tests. Come back when they’re done.”
“Must I? It’s just insomnia.”
“You rarely visit the surgery, yes? Consider it your annual check-up.”
“And then I see you again? What about the sleepless nights?” Edward fiddled with the referrals.
“Remove the stress. Leave your wife. You slept fine without her, didn’t you?”
“I’d love to, but where would I go? Our flat’s too small to sell, and she won’t leave—nor can I abandon my daughter. My parents are gone. At my age, renting seems absurd. Just prescribe something, will you?”
Reluctantly, Joanne pulled out a prescription pad and scribbled a mild sedative.
“You’re single, aren’t you?” Edward asked suddenly. “You look troubled. Problems of your own?”
Her pen froze. *The audacity.*
“That’s none of your concern,” she snapped.
“Just asking out of sympathy. Doctors get sick too. Husband left you?”
She wanted to say yes—ten years ago, for a younger woman, leaving her with three children. Her eldest was in Germany now, married, never returning. Her daughter had moved to London last year, and just that morning, her youngest had followed, despite her protests. At fifty, she faced a lonely future—no parents, no friends, no one to confide in.
She snapped back to the present.
“Here’s your prescription. Get those tests done.” She slid the paper toward him.
“Thank you,” he said, but didn’t move.
“Anything else? If not, don’t keep the others waiting.”
“Right. Goodbye.” Edward finally stood, but paused at the door. Joanne hadn’t looked away fast enough.
As the next patient—a chatty elderly woman—entered, Joanne mentally braced for the empty flat awaiting her.
That evening, leaving the surgery, someone called her name.
“Joanne!”
Edward stood there, his expression unreadable.
“I’ve been thinking… There’s such sadness in your eyes. You don’t want to go home either, do you?”
She stiffened. Was it that obvious?
“What makes you say that?”
“Don’t play tough. I know life—and women. Not all are like my wife. Have coffee with me. Just to talk. I’ve thought about you all day. You’re lovely, but so sad.”
Joanne hesitated, searching for a polite refusal.
“Trying to think of a way to send me off? You’d rather march into loneliness?”
*Perceptive*, she thought.
“Fine,” she said.
Over coffee, Edward joked about the weather, the coming winter. She sipped her drink, certain this was folly—another disappointment waiting to happen.
But the warmth of the coffee, his ridiculous anecdotes, and later, the shared bottle of wine, lightened her spirits. She even laughed. For the first time in ages, the future didn’t seem so bleak.
Outside, the pavement glistened with rain. He hailed a cab—she hadn’t even noticed him calling one—and helped her in.
By her doorstep, she bid him goodnight, ignoring his hopeful glance.
The next day, he stood outside the surgery with an enormous bouquet.
“Are you courting me?” She glanced around, certain colleagues would gossip. “Don’t.”
“Did I offend you?” He followed, flowers in hand.
“Leave me alone,” she snapped, striding off.
Days passed, and he didn’t return. Yet each evening, she caught herself scanning the crowd for him.
On the fifth day, he reappeared—no flowers this time.
“Listen, I don’t want a relationship. Find someone younger.”
“I don’t want anyone else,” he said quietly, his expression so wretched she almost pitied him.
That night, he kissed her at her doorstep—soft, tentative. She didn’t pull away.
*What am I doing?* she wondered as they rode the lift upstairs.
Her flat felt different with him there—warmer. When he lingered, she handed him slippers. “My son’s.”
Tea brewed, the bouquet brightening the kitchen.
“Are you hoping to sleep with me?” she asked bluntly.
Edward swallowed. “Well… Would you mind?”
She laughed. Then he kissed her properly, and her body responded as if remembering something long forgotten.
He stayed the night.
Days later, she found him waiting outside her building.
“My daughter was ill—I couldn’t leave her. I missed you.”
She grew accustomed to his snoring, his warmth beside her.
*Are you in love?* her inner voice taunted. *Will you marry him?*
*Why not?* she admitted. *I like waiting for him, cooking his meals…*
Six months passed. Edward finally placed a ring on the table.
“Proposing?” she asked, examining the glittering stone.
“Try it on.”
It fit perfectly.
“Will you marry me?”
“You’re married.”
“Not anymore,” he said softly. “I bought this the day after we met. I wouldn’t give it to you while bound to her.”
At fifty, love felt different—not the reckless passion of youth, but something deeper.
They applied for marriage, planning a simple registry office affair. Joanne bought a cornflower-blue dress, the colour of her eyes. She hung it carefully, disbelieving her own happiness.
The night before, Edward insisted on a “stag do”—just wine and laughter. They overdid it, waking late, missing their slot.
“It’s a sign,” Joanne sighed.
They tried again—this time, her dress wouldn’t fit. Then the lock jammed. By the time Edward fixed it, they were late once more.
“Fate’s against us,” she sobbed.
Six months later, Edward met her at work with a mysterious smile. “Come on. I’ve a surprise.”
At the registry office, she balked. “No. Something will go wrong.”
“Trust me.”
The ceremony passed without a hitch.
“I love you for this,” she whispered as they left, arm in arm.
“Anything for you,” he replied.
Fate had tested them—and relented.
At fifty, happiness is still possible. If you’re determined enough, it finds you.
Edward sleeps soundly now. Joanne answers knocks with a cheerful, “Come in!”
Who knows? Perhaps happiness—or her children—will knock again.
