When in doubt, drink a strong cup of tea…
Margaret first met Edward twenty-seven years ago. She had been running down the university corridor, tears streaming down her face, blind with grief, when she collided with someone. Strong hands caught her, steadying her, and a voice asked, “What’s happened?”
She pulled back, wiping her eyes, trying to focus on the tall stranger before her.
“Has someone died?” he asked.
She shook her head.
“My boyfriend left me.”
He didn’t laugh, didn’t offer empty comforts. Instead, he took her hand and led her aside.
“Have you got a coat?”
“In the cloakroom,” Margaret sniffled.
“Give me the ticket. Wait here.”
She obeyed, handing over the stub. Minutes later, he returned, helping her into her coat as he spoke.
“If he left, he didn’t love you. No sense crying—plenty of fools left in the world. Come on.” He took her hand again.
“Where?” She tugged her hand free.
“The café down the road.” He sighed. “My gran used to say, when you don’t know what to do, drink strong tea. It helps clear the mind. Then the answer comes. Shall we?”
Margaret wiped her tears and followed. Being alone felt worse.
Over tea, she studied him—older than her, dark curls, sharp green eyes that watched her with quiet amusement. She flushed, suddenly aware of her blotchy face.
“The ladies’ room is past the bar,” he said without being asked.
Grateful, she excused herself. When she returned, a pot of tea and two plates of scones waited. He poured, awkwardly blowing on the steaming cup before taking a sip—then spluttered, sloshing tea over his hand.
“Does it hurt?” she asked.
“Like the devil,” he admitted, shaking his hand. They both laughed.
“What’s your name?” she asked.
“Edward. Yours?”
“Margaret.”
“I know. Third year, right? I’m finishing up. Soon as I’ve got my degree, I’m off home.”
“To your grandmother?”
“She passed last year.”
“I’m sorry,” Margaret murmured.
“Not your fault.”
They laughed again, and the ease between them calmed her. They began meeting, calling. Edward knew he was a distraction, a way to forget. Then he left—only to return a week later.
Margaret flung herself into his arms.
“Decided I mattered to you. Or don’t I?” He searched her eyes.
“You do. So much,” she whispered into his shoulder.
A year later, they married—never parting again, save for her days in hospital. Margaret took her finals heavily pregnant; a week later, their daughter Charlotte was born. Two years on, they welcomed William. Edward’s factory job secured them a three-bedroom house.
Twenty-seven years together. So long, yet gone in a blink. A good life—children who gave little trouble. Charlotte married, moved away, blessed them with a granddaughter. William, still unmarried, announced at twenty he wanted his own place. Edward resisted, but Margaret convinced him to let go. At first, they paid his rent; once he found work, they stopped. Independence had its price.
“You spoil him,” Edward grumbled.
“Who else would? Don’t fuss.”
So life went—until the night Margaret woke to silence. Not a breath beside her.The lamp revealed Edward’s still face, already cold. She shook him, called his name—refusing to believe. No illness, no warnings. The paramedics called it quick: a blood clot. Gone. The undertakers didn’t come till dawn, the sky leaden with drizzle.
Until then, she talked to him, reminiscing, asking how to live without him.
When they took him away, she called the children. William said he’d come that evening. Charlotte arrived at once, held her mother through the tears, through the hospital formalities. Without her, Margaret would’ve shattered.
After the funeral, she placed his portrait on the nightstand, framed in black. Each morning, she greeted him, shared her plans. At night, she begged him to visit her dreams—then cried into her pillow.
On the ninth day, only Edward’s old colleague came, along with the children. When they left, Margaret retreated, exhausted. The murmur of Charlotte and William’s voices lulled her to sleep.
She woke to clinking dishes and low voices. “Charlotte’s washing up,” she thought. Rising, she fumbled with her slipper before padding to the door—then froze at the words.
“Why should you get the house? What about me? We’re planning another child—we’ll need the space,” Charlotte said sharply.
“Did I say it’s just for me? But we need to sort this. Soon. Mum’s not old—she won’t stay single long. Some bloke moves in, and poof—our inheritance,” William countered.
“How can you? Dad loved her!”
Margaret’s nails dug into the doorframe. “So soon? Dividing our home? Where do I go?” She turned to the portrait. “You heard? You were right. I gave them everything—now they’d toss me out.”
The argument escalated. She listened, heart cracking.
“You’re still a spoiled brat. This was your idea—you deal with Mum,” Charlotte snapped.
“And you don’t want a cut? Try living on one salary with a mortgage!”
“Ssh, you’ll wake her. If you’re so worried, talk to her. You’re the favourite.”
“When are you getting married?” Charlotte shot back.
“When I’ve got a place worth bringing a wife to!”
Margaret stepped into the kitchen. “And me? Out on the street?”
Charlotte flushed. William glowered.
“No shame. Your father not cold, and you’re carving up his home.”
“You heard?” Charlotte whispered.
“Enough.”
“Am I wrong?” William challenged. “You’re alone in a three-bedder. We’re equal heirs.”
“You’ve divided it already? Clever boy. Wait six months. I meant to invite you here—forget it. Both of you—leave.”
“Mum—”
“Go.” She sank onto the chair, eyes shut.
They left quietly. The slam of the door made her smile bitterly. “Maybe I should die now—spare myself their greed.” Then she checked herself. “What nonsense. Die? What did Edward’s gran say? When lost, drink tea. Clarity follows.”
She brewed lemon balm tea—Edward had hated herbs, preferring plain black. She sipped, remembering their first meeting, how he’d burned his tongue. Tears fell anew.
The argument gnawed at her. They’d raised them to be their comfort—instead, they saw only profit. “Edward, why did you leave me?”
Wandering the house, she traced memories—laughter, chaos, then silence as the children left. Edward’s quiet sorrow.
“Maybe they’re right. What do I need alone?”
She sat before his portrait. “Tell me what to do. If we split the house, Charlotte loses out. Is that fair?” His silence stung.
Now, every choice was hers. No parents, no Edward. She clutched the photo to her chest, rocking, aching.
A draft from the open window knocked the portrait down. The glass cracked.
“Forgive me, love. I’ll get a new frame.”
That night, he visited her dreams—young, smiling. He walked to the hall, stopped by the wardrobe, glanced upward, and vanished.
She woke shouting, rushed to the spot. Nothing. Then—the top shelf. A shoebox, oddly heavy. Inside, a brick of newspaper-wrapped £50 notes. Bundles, each labelled in Edward’s hand. Five hundred thousand pounds. Beneath, a deed: a flat he’d sold years ago, unmentioned.
Tears fell. “Thank you,” was all she could say.
The cash was hers alone—no shared accounts, no claims. The children wanted the house? Let them have it.
She bought a modest flat, moved in quietly. At the solicitor’s, she relinquished her share to them. When they came, she announced it plainly.
“Mum, where will you go?” Charlotte fretted.
“I’ll manage.”
William fidgeted. “We’ll sort it,” he muttered.
“Don’t cheat your sister.”
Adjusting wasn’t easy. But weeks later, Charlotte called—William had taken her old flat, left her the house. Generous, unexpected.
Good children, after all.
When Charlotte’s son was born, she often brought the baby over. Margaret cherished it—a purpose.
Edward still visited her dreams, young, hand in hers. One day, they’d walk like that again, never parting.