25May2023
Dear Diary,
Life throws all sorts of curveballs, yet Ive never been keen on detailing the twists of my own love story.
I was fortysix when my husband, David, packed his bags for a younger womanten years his junior, mind you. For four long years I lingered in the deepest gloom, the kind that makes every breath feel heavy. Time softened the ache, my son welcomed a baby, and I bought a modest cottage in the Yorkshire Dales so my grandson could spend his summers breathing the fresh country air. That little plot of land became my refuge; I sowed tomatoes and peppers, and I even took in a sprightly JackRussell Terrier I named Biscuit. I never truly forgave David, but eventually the bitterness slipped away. By the time I hit fifty, I realised I didnt mind meeting someone newthough I had no idea who or where.
I worked as a nurse in a childrens health centre back in Manchester; love isnt exactly on the waiting list there. My friends urged me to keep an eye on a neighbour from the cottage community, but I brushed them asideevery bloke seemed already taken, and what bloke would come alone to the garden? I resigned myself to a solitary fate, thinking Id spend the rest of my days alone.
When I turned fiftytwo, David collapsed suddenly from a heart attack. He passed away almost instantly, and the shock struck me oddlyit left me feeling nothing but a vague pity for my son, for whom it was a crushing blow. I attended the funeral more for his sake than my own; I didnt really want to be there.
Sitting at the memorial table, a mans gaze landed on me. Hes rather handsome, I thought, then scolded myselfafter all, this was the funeral of my former husband. I stared at my plate, trying not to stare back at the attractive stranger. About five minutes later a voice near me said:
May I?
I lifted my eyes to see the man with his own plate, pulling out a chair to sit beside me.
Excuse my forwardness, he smiled, but I havent seen such kind eyes in ages. Id like to introduce myself. Im Michael Harper.
Eleanor, I managed to whisper.
He proved to be an engaging conversationalist, and, crucially, his finger bore no wedding band. Youve gone daft, dear, I muttered in my head, yet I couldnt help the attraction I felt for Michael. As we wrapped up, he asked, oddly enough:
And how are you related to the deceased?
My wife, I blurted out.
Michael glanced skeptically at a young widow across the roompale, eyes rimmed with tearsthen looked back at me.
Thats the second one, he said. I was the first.
I laughed, a nervous chortle, and replied, I was the first.
He chuckled and said, Sounds like the start of a funny story.
And indeed it turned out to be just that. Michael loved to regale anyone whod listen with the tale of attending a colleagues funeral and whisking away his first wife. I, on the other hand, blushed each time I had to explain that the man we were mourning was my exhusband, not my current partner. By the time the story reached new acquaintances, theyd already taken the liberty of assuming Id never thought of him again. Yet none of that mattered. The real point is that I truly fell in love this time, and I find myself oddly grateful to my first husband for setting the stage for this unexpected meeting.
Eleanor (Elli) Fletcher.
