15May2025
Today I found myself reflecting on Eleanor Whitaker, a woman Ive known since she moved into the little cottage by the Thames in Kent. Shes a 46yearold former nurse from the childrens health centre in Manchester, and her love story is one she rarely mentions.
Four years ago she endured a painful divorce after her husband left her for a woman a decade younger. The first years were a bleak, hopeless stretch, but slowly the ache faded. Their son welcomed a baby, and Eleanor bought the cottage so her grandson could spend summer holidays breathing the fresh country air. She kept herself busy: planting tomatoes and peppers in the garden, looking after her dachshund, Bix. She never forgave her exhusband, yet the hurt eventually slipped away. By the time she turned 50 she realised she wasnt opposed to meeting someone new, but she wasnt sure where or how.
Her work as a nurse didnt lend itself to romance, and the ladies I spoke to suggested she keep an eye on a neighbour at the cottage complex. She brushed the idea aside everyone there was married, and who would drive alone to the garden? She resigned herself to the notion that she might spend the rest of her days alone.
When she turned 52, her former husband died suddenly of a heart attack. She was surprised to feel nothing more than a pang of pity for their son, for whom it was a crushing blow. She attended the funeral mainly for his sake; shed rather not have been there herself.
Seated at the memorial table, she caught the glance of a gentleman across the room. Hes rather handsome, she thought, then chastised herself after all, this was the funeral of her exhusband. She stared at her plate to avoid his eyes, but after about five minutes a voice spoke beside her.
May I? he asked.
She looked up to see a man with a warm smile, pulling his chair a little closer.
Im sorry to be so forward, he said, but I havent seen such kind eyes in a long time. Id like to introduce myself. Im Michael Hart.
Eleanor, she managed to reply.
Michael proved to be an engaging conversationalist, and, most importantly, his finger bore no wedding ring. Youre mad, love, she muttered to herself, but I cant help it I like him. As their chat drew to a close, he asked gently:
And what relation are you to the deceased?
My wife, Eleanor blurted.
Michael looked puzzled and gestured toward the young widow, pale and tearstained.
Thats the second, Eleanor clarified. I was the first.
He chuckled and said, I think this will make a fine story one day.
And indeed it did. Michael delighted in telling anyone who would listen that hed met the first wife of a colleague at his funeral and walked away with a new companion. Eleanor, on the other hand, felt a touch embarrassed; she had to explain that the man shed been married to was now just that a former husband. By the time the tale reached new acquaintances, theyd already decided there was nothing to think about but her.
What matters most is that Eleanor truly fell in love again, and she now thanks her first husband for that unexpected meeting. Ive learned that life can hand you a fresh start in the most unlikely of places, and that holding onto past grief only keeps you from noticing the new chances that appear right beside you.
