Remember that time…
Margaret woke up early. Her husband, Peter, was sound asleep beside her—Saturday, no need to rush off to work. She lay there, hoping to drift off again, but no luck. Decades of early rising had trained her body too well. She’d only been retired a year, hadn’t quite shaken the habit, and still got up to make Peter’s breakfast before he left for work.
Housework—the never-ending kind—kept her busy all day, and before she knew it, Peter was back from the office. Exhausted. More tired than she’d ever been at work. And him? Jealous, of course. “Must be nice, lounging at home all day,” he’d say. Two more years until *his* retirement.
No point lying around. Margaret got up. Peter didn’t stir, just smacked his lips and rolled toward the wall. By the time he shuffled into the kitchen, a plate of steaming pancakes waited on the table. He inhaled deeply.
“Wash up and eat while they’re hot,” Margaret said, eyeing his rumpled t-shirt and boxers.
“Right,” he mumbled, shuffling off to the loo.
While Peter splashed water on his face and scraped a razor across his chin, Margaret smoothed the bedsheets. *Like a maid waiting on his lordship. His day off, but me? Stuck at the stove like it’s a weekday. Retirement doesn’t mean weekends anymore.*
Back in the kitchen, Peter was already demolishing the pancakes.
“Slow down, no one’s stealing them,” she chided, without real bite.
“Too good. No one makes ’em like you,” he said through a mouthful.
“Oh? And who else’s pancakes have you been eating, then?” Margaret arched a brow.
“No one, just—bad phrasing.” Peter coughed awkwardly and gulped his tea.
Margaret sat opposite, watching him eat. Thirty-one years together, a grown daughter with a family of her own, and still—he ate like a farmhand. She bit back a sharp remark.
Peter stuffed another pancake in his mouth and slurped his tea loudly.
“Pete, it’s lovely out. Fancy a trip to the cottage?” Margaret suggested.
“Why?” he grunted between chews.
“Check things over, lock up for winter. Get some fresh air. Bring back a few jars of pickles. Rain’s due soon…”
“We were there last week. What’s left to see? Mrs. Wilkins next door’ll call if anything’s amiss.”
“Could forage for mushrooms. Fry ’em up with potatoes. Come on, eh?” She gave him a hopeful look.
“Go if you want. You’re the one with time to spare. I’m *working*, tired. Can’t I just lounge on my day off? Always dragging me somewhere,” he muttered, pushing his empty mug away. “Ruined my appetite with all this cottage talk.” He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and stalked off without a glance.
Margaret stared after him, shaking her head.
*Ruined his appetite? Really? Polished off every pancake and couldn’t even say ta.* She washed the dishes, clattering them onto the rack, then slammed the cupboard shut for good measure. *There. Let him know I’m cross too. I bothered to get up at dawn, cooked, could’ve slept in instead. I’m retired—I’ve earned it.*
She marched into the living room. Peter was sprawled on the sofa, glued to the telly. She sighed loudly.
“Just gonna loaf about all day? Some rest.”
He grunted something unintelligible.
*I’m not some housebound drudge. I’ll leave, come back tomorrow, see how he likes it. “Dragging him somewhere,” pfft. Fine, rot on the sofa. News more important than his wife, can’t even glance away. Spare tyre from all that loafing…*
She packed a few bits—tea, pasta, tins—the cottage was stocked. Almost left without a word, but paused. “Off to the cottage. Back tomorrow, likely.”
“Mhm,” Peter replied, eyes still on the screen.
Margaret sighed and left. The forecast promised a dry, warm week. Chilly evenings, sure—September, not summer. Plenty of old jumpers at the cottage, she wouldn’t freeze.
*I’m not his keeper. Fridge is full. Won’t starve. Won’t crumble if he has to reheat his own dinner…* Her internal rant carried her to the train station.
The bus was quiet, seats to spare. Early birds rushing to make the most of the day before the seasonal route ended in October.
Through the window, the city flickered past, weary from summer. Margaret imagined the cottage, the kettle whistling, tomorrow’s mushroom hunt…
The place was her grandfather’s. Her dad had spruced it up—new siding, a sauna—then died six months later. Mum followed soon after. It passed to her and Peter. He’d grown up in the countryside, used to love gardening. Then laziness won.
“Everything’s in shops now. Why break our backs? Sell it, buy a car,” he’d say.
“And drive *where* without the cottage?” Margaret had countered.
She didn’t adore digging dirt, but the plot had saved them during lean years. Childhood summers there with her grandparents. Their daughter? Couldn’t be lured, though she loved the jams and pickles.
The city faded, fields and forests rolling by. Then the cottages. Nodding at familiar faces, Margaret squeezed toward the exit.
The cottage still smelled lived-in. Spring was worse—damp, musty after winter. She changed, fetched water from the well, put the kettle on. While it boiled, she tidied the garden—plucking a stray branch here, a tuft of weeds there.
“On your own, then?” Mrs. Wilkins called from next door.
Nearly eighty, she lived there year-round. Early widow, son settled abroad with his family. She’d refused to join them. A grandson had stayed with her while at uni, then married. She’d handed them her flat and moved here permanently. “Not to be a burden,” she’d say. Who knew the truth? The cottage was cosy, wood stove and all. Her late husband had built it well.
Margaret waved her over. “Come for tea, Lyd—Mrs. Wilkins. Brought biscuits, fresh loaf.”
“Don’t mind if I do.” The old woman brightened, toddling to the gate.
Margaret smiled. Unassuming, short on words but loved to listen—and dunk biscuits. Always alone. Margaret usually brought treats. Today? Forgot.
Over tea, the words tumbled out—Peter’s sloth, his ingratitude.
“Used to help, didn’t he? Hoovering while I dusted, even mopped. Shopped together. Now? Can’t pry him off the sofa. Beer belly and telly. If I worked late, he’d fetch our Alice from nursery, fry up supper.”
Mrs. Wilkins nodded, reaching for another biscuit.
“Does the mobile grocer still come round?” Margaret asked.
“Mm. Lots still here. Tomorrow, likely. You staying, then?”
“Why not? Peaceful here. City’s all noise and grime. Sick of waiting on Peter. Let him fend for himself—maybe he’ll *miss* me. Not far, is it?”
“Quite right. Cheers me up too.”
“Grandson visit?”
“Busy with the little one.”
“Your name’s Lydia, isn’t it?” Margaret frowned.
“Aye.”
“Why’s everyone call you Mrs. Wilkins, then?”
“Late husband—Michael Wilkins. Built half these cottages. Folks called him by his surname. After he passed, it stuck to me. Don’t mind. Michael up there’s not lonesome, I reckon—not calling me home yet.” She sighed.
“Never knew that. Fancy mushrooming tomorrow?”
“Too old for woods. Garden’s enough.”
“I’ll go. Fry up spuds with ’shrooms—join me for lunch?”
That night, Margaret slept like the dead. Up at dawn, she headed straight for the woods. Back by midday, she checked her phone—dead. Plugged it in, and *ping*—messages flooded in. Peter and Alice had been frantic.
She dialed Alice.
“Mum! *Where* are you? We’ve been ringing hospitals!”
“I *told* your dad I was at the cottage. Must’ve forgotten.”
“Had a row?”
“No. Went foraging—frying mushrooms and potatoes now. I’m *fine*.”
Soon, Peter rang. Alice must’ve filled him in. He yelled down the line—vanishing act, worried sick.
“*Told* you I was coming here. Even invited you. Too busy with the telly, eh?”
“Just—when are you back?”
“Never,” slipped out. “Staying the week. You relax—no dragging you anywhere. Miss me? Come visit.”
“But work—”
“So?Peter arrived the very next evening, arms full of groceries and a sheepish smile, proving that even the most stubborn habits could bend for love.