On a carpet of golden leaves…
Margaret glanced at the medication chart, plucked another blister pack from the tray, and pressed the capsules into plastic cups. The same routine, day after daypreparing doses for the patients.
Would her whole life slip away in this monotonous cycle? Alone. Her heart ached as though a fresh wound had reopened. She remembered yesterday in painful detailevery cutting word from her husband, each one leaving a sting that lingered.
She tossed the empty blister into the bin beside the table, grabbed a bottle, and poured a handful of pills onto her palm, quickening her pace. But her thoughts were far away, lost in the past…
“Margaret, what on earth are you doing?” The voice of the senior nurse, Mrs. Whitmore, startled her. The bottle slipped from her grasp, knocking over the cups. Margaret stared helplessly at the scattered tablets.
“Whats wrong with you?” Mrs. Whitmore snapped. “Do you realise you couldve killed someone by giving them the wrong dose? Step away from the table!” She nudged Margaret aside. “Good grief, what are we supposed to do with this mess?”
“IIm sorry, Mrs. Whitmore. Ill fix it…” Margaret scooped up one of the cups, tipping the pills into her hand, frozen in uncertainty.
“Give me those!” Mrs. Whitmore snatched them from her. “How do we even know which is which now?” She dumped them into the bin.
“I just… lost focus for a moment,” Margaret whispered, her hands trembling as she stared at the cups.
“If I hadnt walked in, who knows what mightve happened? Fancy a prison sentence, do you?”
“I dont know how it happened…” Margaret collapsed onto a chair, pressing her hands to her face as silent sobs shook her shoulders.
“Please tell me you hadnt started the injections yet?”
Margaret shook her head, tears still streaming.
“Youve never been this careless before. Youre not some rookie.”
“My husband… he left me yesterday…” Her voice was muffled against her palms.
“Ah. Right.” Mrs. Whitmore sighed, tossing the remaining tablets into the bin. “Ill sort this myself. YouI cant let you work in this state. One mistake, and well both end up in court.”
Margaret finally dropped her hands and stood.
“Mrs. Whitmore, I”
“Sit down. Better yet, go home. Write up a leave request starting tomorrow. Ill take it to Matron myself.”
“I was saving my leave for when my daughter has the baby…” Margaret wiped smudged mascara from her cheeks.
“A week should be enough to pull yourself together. Take the rest when the baby comes. And goI dont want to see you here like this. Ill cover your shift. And keep this quiet, unless you want to be sacked.”
Margaret blinked, dazed.
“Honestly, it doesnt bear thinking about,” Mrs. Whitmore muttered. “Though our patients are sharptheyd have kicked up a fuss if theyd seen the mountain of pills you were handing out.”
Margaret, slight beside Mrs. Whitmores sturdy frame, felt even smaller.
“Wash your face. All husbands stray sooner or later, even the good ones.” Mrs. Whitmore began refilling the cups. “WaitIll call you a cab. In your state, youll walk straight into traffic.”
Margaret didnt argue. She wrote her request, changed out of her scrubs, grabbed her handbag, and left. A black cab waited at the hospital gates. She slid into the back seat and gave her address.
Home was the last place she wanted to be. *Hes gone, probably happy with some younger woman, and I nearly sent patients to their graves. Pull yourself together…* Her phone rangher daughter, Emily.
“Mum, hi!” Emilys cheerful voice eased the weight in her chest. No harm doneshe hadnt given out the wrong doses.
“Em, love, how are you? Whats up?”
“Just checking in. You at work?”
“In a cab, heading home. Theyve put me on leave for a week.”
“Why? Are you ill?”
“No, just… things happened. Mind if I come stay with you for a bit?”
“Of course! When?”
“Tomorrow, if I can get a train ticket…”
She chatted, barely noticing when the cab stopped outside her flat.
“Here we are. Got another fare waiting,” the driver said.
“Ohright. How much do I owe you?”
He gave her a patient look.
“Already paid. Card charge when it was booked.”
“Really? I didnt…” *Mrs. Whitmore mustve handled it.* She stepped out.
“Mum, who were you talking to?” Emily asked.
“The driver. Ill call back once Ive got my ticket.” She went to tuck her phone awaythen froze.
Her handbag was gone.
Her stomach dropped. The cab had driven off with it. She stumbled to a bench by the entrance, brushed aside a few golden leaves, and sank down. *Mrs. Whitmore was rightIm falling apart…*
She mentally inventoried the bag. Keys were in her coat pocket, phone in hand… but her wallet! Barely any cash, but her cards*Stop sitting here! Block them now!*
She glanced desperately at the road. *Maybe the driver will return it?* She scoffed at herself. *Wishful thinking.*
After freezing her card, she exhaled in relief. Now to calm down. Inside her flat, the quiet pressed in. She perched on the ottoman, fury at her husband flaring anew. *Because of him, Im a wreck, and he couldnt care less.*
Maybe she shouldnt go. But Emily was expecting her, and staying here alone was unbearable. Sighing, she fetched her emergency stashshe and her husband had shared a rainy-day fund, but shed kept a little aside. Enough for the trip.
She bought her ticket, packed lightly, and warned her neighbour, Mrs. Higgins, shed be away. On the train, she relaxed. The bag was replaceable, her card secure. Her husbands departure no longer felt like the end of the world. *No ones died. Emilys well, a grandchild coming…* She drifted off, thoughts turning to her daughter.
London greeted her with drizzle and leaden skies. Later, she confessed to Emily about her father.
“Dont you dare take him back if he crawls home,” Emily said.
Margaret pictured him returning to an empty flat. *Let him fret.*
But when she returned, it was clear he hadnt been back.
Over tea, Mrs. Higginsthrice-married and still hopeful at seventychatted about Emily. Then she gasped.
“Oh! A gentleman came asking for you. Distinguished-looking, very polite. Wanted something… Im sorry, I forget what.”
Margaret waved it off. “Hell come again.”
“But isnt it odd he didnt know your name? What if hes a conman?”
Margaret laughed. “If he were a thief, hed have broken in while I was gone. Theres nothing here worth stealing.”
“Still, be careful, dear.”
At work the next day, Mrs. Whitmore eyed her but soon relaxed. That evening, the doorbell rang. A handsome stranger stood there, holding her handbag.
“May I come in? This seems an awkward conversation for the doorstep.”
She stepped aside.
“Found this in a cab. You were the fare before me?”
She nodded.
“I spotted it on the back seat. The driver remembered yousaid you seemed upset, talking on the phone the whole ride.”
“How did you find me?”
“He gave me your address. The flat number was easyyour neighbour helped.” Margaret checked the bag. Everything was there.
“I blocked my card,” she blurted.
“Smart. You never know.”
She offered him a twenty.
“Keep it. I didnt come for money.” He turned to leave.
“Thank you!” she called after him.
“Dont mention it.”
That weekend, he returnedwith flowers.
“I didnt leave these in the cab,” she said, bemused.
“Your neighbour told me everything. These are for you.” He held them out. “We never introduced ourselves. Im James.”
“Margaret.”
“Id like to take you dancing. Ever been to a studio?”
“Never. I cant dance.”
“I love itjust lack a partner. So?”
She hesitated, then thought, *Why not? Let my husband see Im not weeping into my pillow.*
She went. James was a natural; she stepped on his toes, but he laughed it off. Over tea afterward, she admitted shed enjoyed ithis guidance, the way he led.
They went regularly after that. One evening, she returned glowingand tripped over a suitcase in the hall. *Hes back.*
Her husband emerged from the bedroom.
“Meg, Im sorry. Ive been miserable. She
