From Meeting to Parting
Five years ago, Rose found herself alone. Her husband had passed away after a long battle with cancer. Before that, their only daughter, Emily, had married and moved to another town, first giving birth to a son, Oliver, and three years later, a daughter, Lily. When Roses husband was still well, shed visit Emily and the children. But once he fell ill, she couldnt leave his side.
Emily visited occasionally, leaving the kids with her husband. She insisted they shouldnt see their dying grandfather. She came alone to the funeral, toothen packed up straight after.
“Sorry, Mum, but Marks got the kids Why dont you come stay with us? Whats left for you here?”
And off she went. Rose was alone. She missed her husband desperately. Sick or not, at least hed been there. Now what? No one needed her.
After the mourning period, Rose decided to visit her daughter. But Emily and Mark were always at work, and the grandchildren barely recognised hertheyd grown distant. Rose felt like an intruder. After a week, she packed her bags.
“Mum, why not stay another week?” Emily suggested, but when Rose refused, she didnt press.
Rose never visited again. Last year, Emilys family dropped by on their way back from holiday. Oliver, now fourteen, had headphones permanently glued to his ears and a tablet in hand. Lily, with pink streaks in her hair, texted nonstop and chewed gum like it was her job.
Rose tried to talk to Emilywerent the kids rotting their brains? Did she even know what they were watching or who they were chatting with?
“Mum, all kids are like this now. Banning things just makes it worse,” Emily brushed her off.
Before they left, Rose tried again.
“Its hard being alone. Visit more often. The kids dont even know me. Ive still got energymaybe they could stay with me during the holidays?”
“Mum, why give yourself the hassle?”
“Theyre my grandchildren. What hassle?”
“Well see,” Emily saidbut a year passed, and the kids never came.
So Rose went to them. Why not? She was retired, free as a bird. The parents were always at work, while Oliver and Lily lived off takeaway pizza and sushi. Was that a proper meal? Rose took over the cooking. At first, everyone loved her soups, pancakes, and piesuntil the kids went back to pizza. Mark once caught her hand-washing dishes and scoffed, “Weve got a dishwasher, you know. No need to martyr yourself.”
Emily sighed and rearranged the drying rack. Oliver complained Grandma had “ruined” his wardrobe by folding things. Rose protestedshed just tidied!
“Mum, stop interfering,” Emily advised.
“Nan, no more cakesIve put on a kilo already,” Lily whined.
“And pizza doesnt make you fat?” Rose retorted.
Soon enough, she realised she was in the way. Time to go home. Emily didnt object, and Mark promptly offered to drive her to the station.
Rose missed her husband. If only John were still here Why had he left her so soon? No one to talk to. Whod care for her ifheaven forbidshe fell ill?
She used to knit and embroider, but her eyesight had faded. Now straining them just gave her headaches. What else was there to do in retirement? Bake pies? For whom?
One friend had died right after her husband; another was too busy with her own brood of grandkids.
***
The last golden days of autumn lingered. The air was crisp, the sunlight pale. Fallen leaves crackled underfoot as Rose walked to the park, a bag of stale bread in hand.
Settling on a bench, she crumbled the bread for the pigeons. Soon, a whole flock gathered, even sparrows darting in for crumbs.
Rose watched them, brooding. Life was fleetingyouth gone in a blink, old age creeping up. Shed imagined growing old with John, watching each others backs. Instead, he was gone, and her daughter and grandkids didnt need her
“Quite the fan club,” a voice said.
A man sat at the other end of the bench. She hadnt noticed him arrive. Neatly dressed, around her age or older.
“Ive seen you here before,” he remarked.
Rose didnt recognise him. Then again, she never paid much attention during her walks.
“Im on my own too. Wife died eight years ago. Still not used to it,” he sighed.
*Like he read my mind*, she thought. She studied himwell-pressed trousers, clean-shaven.
“Lovely day. Last of the warmth before the rains come,” he said, tilting his face to the sun.
“Who helps you? Youre so put together,” Rose asked.
“Learned after Margaret passed. Not rocket science. My sons busy with his familydaughter-in-laws got her hands full. Think men cant manage?” He smiled. “Im George. Look at those sparrowsfearless little thieves. And you are?”
“Rose.”
“Pretty name. Unusual. My wife was Margaretfamily name. Fancy the cinema? Bit chilly now.”
The sun had vanished behind clouds. Rose meant to refusebut the empty flat loomed.
“Whats playing?”
“Does it matter?” George grinned.
Fair point. When had she last been? She couldnt recall. The cinema was all plush seats and booming sound now. The film was decent. Afterwards, night had fallen, the air sharp.
“How about a cuppa? Warm up?” George suggested.
Rose declined.
“Another time?” he asked hopefully.
She pictured her silent flat.
“Come to mine instead. Ive got tea and scones.”
“Wont I be intruding?”
“Why? Youre in no rush, are you? Baked too much, as usual.”
At her building, she fretted about nosy neighboursbut the courtyard was empty.
“Cosy place. Husband?” George nodded at the framed photo.
“Yes. Cancer.” She almost complained about Emily but stopped. The loneliness was obvious.
Fresh tea, warmed scones, jam in a little dishGeorge ate heartily.
“Lots of books. Medical ones too. You a doctor?”
“No. Biology teacher. Wanted to be a doctor, but Mum died younghad to earn. Night school, then marriage, kids. Dreams dont always pan out.”
“Ex-army, me. Mind if I?” He browsed her shelves, recognising titles.
“Thank you. Youre a rare woman. Inviting a stranger home.”
“You werent planning to rob me, were you?”
“God, no. Best be off. Walk tomorrow? Same bench?”
They kept meeting. Two lonely souls, starved for company.
Then Emily called one evening.
“Mum, how are you?”
“Fine. Been walking, even saw a film or two.”
“Alone?”
“No. Who goes to the cinema alone? With a friend.”
“Mum, are you *seeing* someone?” Emily gasped.
“Dont be silly. We just walk together.”
“Be careful! Conmen everywhere. Maybe visit us?”
“Why? Id just be in the way. You visit me.”
“Dont you dare get involved! Is this man a widower? Probably drove his wife to an early grave and now wants a free housekeeper! Or after your flatget you to sign it over, then bump you off!”
“What nonsense! Next youll say Ive lost my marbles!”
“What else should I think? Remember Mrs. Whitmore?”
“How can you judge someone youve never met? I never interfered in your life! Send the kids over for half-term”
They hung up, both annoyed.
Autumn deepened. Park walks grew too cold, so George invited Rose to his cottagehelp rake leaves, check on the place.
“Big house, fireplace. Lovely countryside. Hardly been since Margaret died.”
She agreed. The cottage was charming, the fireplace cosy. George raked while Rose cooked lunchuntil a 4×4 pulled up.
George brightened. His son, Rose guessed.
She put the kettle on, set the tablethen glanced outside. The conversation had turned heated. Raised voices, sharp gestures. She stepped onto the porch.
“Hello! Come inside?”
“Shes *already* playing house? Dad, have you lost it? Whys she here?” the son yelled.
He called Rose a gold-digger, a predator targeting lonely widowers. He even lunged at heruntil George clutched his chest, collapsing. Rose rushed to catch him.
“Get your hands off him!”
“Help me get him inside and call an ambulance!”
“Bossy, arent you” But seeing his fathers pallor, the son relented.
“Ambulancell take ages. Help me get him in the car.”
They loaded George into the back seat. When Rose moved to join them, the son slammed the door, sped off.
Rose stood frozen. She locked up, trudged to the bus stop. Rain drizzled; she shivered waiting.
Home, Johns portrait seemed to judge her.
“Forgive me. Im so lonely.” She made tea, then phoned hospitals. George was in ICUheart attack.
Next day, she visitedand met his son.
“What are *you* doing here? Finish him off, will you? You wont get his flatmade him write a will. Scram before I call the police.”
Eyes on them, Rose left in tears.
She returned the next day, lied she was his wife. George had died at dawn. She skipped the funeralcouldnt face more accusations.
Two lonely hearts, briefly united, torn apart again.
A week later, Emily called. She was coming.
“Whats wrong?” Rose braced for bad news.
Emily arrived with the kids and suitcases. No explanation, just: “Were staying awhile.”
“Mum and Dad are splitting up,” Lily said.
“Why?”
“Dads got someone else,” Oliver added.
Emily wept for days. The kids clung to Rose, screens forgotten.
Rose revelled in the sudden bustleneeded again.
But for how long?
