From Meeting to Parting
Five years ago, Rose was left alone. Her husband had passed away after a long battle with cancer. Before that, their only daughter, Emily, had married and moved to another city, first giving birth to a son, Oliver, and three years later, a daughter, Sophie. When Roses husband was still healthy, she used to visit Emily. But once he fell ill, she couldnt leave himnot even for a day.
Emily visited occasionally, leaving the kids with her husband. She insisted they didnt need to see their grandfather fading away. She came alone to the funeral, too. And right after, she was ready to leave.
“Sorry, Mum, but Mark and the kidswell, you understand. Why dont you come stay with us? Whats left for you here alone?”
And off she went. Rose was left with nothing but memories of her husband. Sick as he was, at least hed been there. Now? No one needed her.
After nine days, Rose decided to visit Emily. But her daughter and son-in-law worked long hours, and the grandchildren barely acknowledged herstrangers in their own home. After a week of feeling like an unwelcome guest, Rose packed her bags.
“Mum, why not stay another week?” Emily suggested half-heartedly, but when Rose refused, she didnt press the matter.
Rose didnt visit again. Last year, they dropped by on their way back from a holiday in Cornwall. Oliver, now fourteen, barely looked up from his earbuds and tablet. Sophie, with her pink-streaked hair, was glued to her phone, chewing gum like it was a full-time job.
Rose tried to talk to Emilywasnt this lifestyle bad for their developing minds? Did she even know what they were watching or who they were chatting with?
“Mum, all these kids are like that. Banning things just makes it worse,” Emily brushed her off.
Before they left, Rose tried again.
“Its hard being alone. Visit more often. The children dont even know me. Ive still got energymaybe they could stay with me during the holidays?”
“Mum, why give yourself the hassle?” Emily replied.
“Theyre my grandchildren. What hassle?”
“Well see,” Emily said. But a whole year passed, and no visits, no holidaysjust the occasional call.
So Rose went to them. Why? She was retired, free. The parents worked all day while Oliver and Sophie lived on takeawayspizza and sushi. What kind of meals were those? Rose took over the cooking. At first, they loved her soups, pancakes, and pies. Then, predictably, the kids went back to pizza. Her son-in-law frowned when he caught her hand-washing dishes.
“We have a dishwasher, you know. No need to martyr yourself at the sink.”
Emily sighed and rearranged the drying rack. Oliver complained his grandmother had “ruined” his wardrobe by folding everything.
“Mum, stop interfering,” Emily said.
“Nan, no more piesIve already put on a kilo,” Sophie whined.
“And pizza doesnt make you gain weight?” Rose shot back.
She got the message: she was in the way. Time to leave. Emily didnt argue, and her son-in-law practically sprinted to drive her to the station.
Rose missed her husband. If only Nick were still here Why had he left her alone? No one to talk to. Whod care for her ifheaven forbidshe fell ill?
She used to knit and embroider, but her eyesight had gone. Now it just gave her headaches. What else was there in retirement? Bake pies? For who?
One friend had died right after her husband. Another was too busy with her own brood of grandchildren to spare Rose a thought.
***
The last golden days of autumn lingered. The sun was out, crisp and cool. Leaves crunched underfoot as Rose stepped into the park, a bag of stale bread in hand.
She sat on a bench, scattering crumbs for the pigeons. Soon, a whole flock gatheredeven sparrows darted in, bold as brass.
Rose watched them, brooding over her lot. Youth was fleeting, life fragileand now old age crept in. Shed imagined growing old with Nick, leaning on each other. Instead, he was gone, and her daughters family barely noticed her
“Quite the gathering,” a voice said.
She hadnt noticed the man sitting at the other end of the bench. Neatly dressed, around her age, maybe older.
“Ive seen you here often,” he said.
Rose didnt recognise him. Then again, she rarely paid attention to passersby, lost in her thoughts.
“Im on my own too. Wife died eight years ago. Still havent got used to it,” he sighed.
*Like hed read her mind.* She studied himwell-pressed trousers, clean-shaven.
“Love autumn. These last warm days Once the rains come, all this beautys gone.” He tilted his face to the sun.
“Who helps you? Youre so put together,” Rose asked.
“Had to learn after Margaret passed. Not rocket science. My sons busydaughter-in-laws hands full with the kids. Think men cant manage? Names George. Look at those cheeky sparrowssnatching crumbs right under the pigeons beaks. And you are?”
“Rose.”
“Lovely name. My wife was Gertrudefamily name. Fancy the cinema? Getting chilly.”
The sun had vanished behind clouds. Rose almost refusedbut the empty flat loomed large.
“Whats showing?”
“Does it matter?” George smiled.
Fair point. When had she last been? Couldnt even recall. She agreed. The cinema was all plush seats and booming surround sound. The film was good. Afterwards, dusk had settled, the air sharp.
“Tea? Warm up?” George offered.
Rose declined.
“Another time?” Hope flickered in his voice.
She imagined unlocking her silent flat
“Come to mine. I live nearby. Tea and pancakes?”
“Wont that be awkward?”
“Why? Unless youre in a rush? Made too many pancakesno one to eat them.”
At her building, she belatedly worried about neighbours spotting them. But the courtyard was empty.
“Cosy place. Your husband?” George nodded at the framed photo.
“Yes. Cancer.” She nearly vented about Emily and the grandkidsbut stopped. The loneliness was obvious.
Fresh tea, warm pancakes, jam in a little dish. George devoured them.
“Lots of booksmedical ones too. You a doctor?”
“No. Biology teacher. Always wanted to be a doctor, but Mum died younghad to earn. Night school, then marriage, kids Dreams got shelved.”
“Ex-military, me. Mind?” He browsed her shelves, pulling out books, flipping pages. Turned out hed read half of them.
“Thank you. Youre a rare sort. Inviting a strange man home.”
“You werent planning to rob me, were you?” Rose teased.
“God forbid. Best be off. Walk tomorrow? Same bench?”
And so it began. Two lonely souls, starved for company.
Then Emily called one evening.
“Mum, how are you?”
“Fine. Walks, even caught a film or two.”
“Alone?”
“No. Who goes alone? With a friend.”
“Mumare you *seeing* someone?” Emilys voice spiked.
“Dont be silly. We just walk in the park.”
“Be careful! Con artists everywhere. Maybe visit us?”
“Why? Id just be in the way. You visit *me*.”
“Dont you dare get involved! Widowers are the worstnext thing you know, hell sweet-talk you into signing over the flat! Remember Mrs. Lightfoots story?”
“How can you judge someone youve never met? I never interfered in your life! Send the kids for the holidays”
It ended badly. Both hung up upset.
Autumn deepened. Too cold for park benches. George invited Rose to his cottageleaves to rake, a fireplace to tend.
“Hardly go there since Margaret died.”
She agreed. The place was lovely, the fire cosy. George raked leaves; Rose cooked. Then a Range Rover pulled up.
George brightenedhis son, clearly.
Rose put the kettle on, set the table. Peeking outside, she saw the conversation turn heatedshouting, wild gestures. She stepped onto the porch.
“Hello! Come inside?”
“Shes running the place now? Dad, have you lost it? Whats *she* doing here? Some gold-digger after your house?”
Georges son ranted about scheming widows, property grabs. He even lunged at Roseuntil George clutched his chest, collapsing.
“Get your hands off him!”
“Help me get him inside! Call an ambulance!”
“Bossing me around” But seeing his fathers pallor, he relented.
“The ambulancell take ages. Help me get him in the car.”
They loaded George in. When Rose moved to join, the son slammed the door, speeding off.
Rose stood stunned. She locked up, trudged to the bus stop. Rain drizzled. By the time the bus came, she was soaked.
The flat greeted her with silence. Nicks photo seemed to glare.
“Sorry, love. Im just so lonely.”
After tea, she phoned hospitals. George was in ICUheart attack.
Next day, she wentonly to face his son.
“You again? Here to finish him off? Forget the flatwe made sure of that. Get out before I call the police.”
Eyes burning, Rose left unseen.
She returned the next day, lying that she was his wife. George had died at dawn. She skipped the funeralcouldnt bear more accusations.
Two kindred spirits, found and lost.
A week later, Emily called. She was coming.
“Whats wrong?” Rose braced for more bad news.
Emily arrived with the kids and suitcases. No explanation, just: “Were staying.”
“Mum and Dad are splitting up,” Sophie said.
“Why?”
“Dads got someone else,” Oliver added.
Emily cried for days. The kids, unusually quiet, clung to Roseno tablets, no phones.
Rose relished the sudden chaos, the chatter, being needed again.
But for how long?
