“I’m Off to See My Young Sweetheart,” Declared the 65-Year-Old Granddad as He Packed His Suitcase—but an Hour Later, He Returned Home in Tears

Im off to find myself a young one, declared Granddad, aged 65, wrestling his battered suitcase as if preparing for an expedition to the moonor maybe Norwich. An hour later, he staggered home in tears.

Im leaving for a younger woman! Granddad huffed again, determinedly trying to stuff a tartan blanket, which very much objected to leaving the house, into his suitcase.

Howard Cartwright made this proclamation with all the drama of a royal announcement, his voice echoing through the flat, expecting shockwaves or at the very least, a thrown mug.

But no such luck. His big news didnt exactly cause a scandal.

His wife, Margaret, stood at the ironing board, methodically gliding the iron over one of Howards smarter shirts. The hissing of steam was the only thing threatening the peace.

I heard, Howard, she replied, calm as a summers day, not looking up. Have you packed your thermal briefs? Its November. Your floozy wont care for your kidneys if you catch a chill.

Howard froze, brandishing one woollen sock like a flag of surrender. Hed been braced for flying crockery, a dramatic faint, or at least desperate pleas to stay, maybe a threat to telephone the children.

He certainly hadnt expected a mundane question about underpants.

Whats that got to do with it, Maggie?! he spluttered, face flushing. Im talking about love, about a new lifeabout a renaissance, for heavens sake!

At last, he managed to wedge the blanket in, flung his weight onto the stubborn lid, and yanked the zip. The suitcase groaned, as if sharing Howards achesand then snapped closed.

You and your blasted thermals! Thats your problem, always practical, always boring! He panted. Sheshe is passion! Shes energy!

And does this energy have a name? Margaret carefully hung his shirt on a hanger and passed it to him. Or is she just Lovebug on your mobile?

Her names Charlotte! Howard straightened up as if announcing an OBE. And shes not just any woman, shes… my muse.

Margaret tried not to smile. The only poetry Howard ever composed was in his toast speeches at friends golden anniversaries.

Charlotte, is it? Lovely name. And, how old is this muse of yours?

Twenty-eight! Howard blurted, looking at his wife with the confidence of a much taller man.

Margaret actually put down the iron and studied him the way one might look at an ancient, beloved sideboard whose door had just come off in your hand.

Howard, she said gently, but with the firmness of a retired headmistress. Youre sixty-five. You get sciatica from sitting on the loo too long, and youre on a low-fat liver diet.

She sighed and added, What are you planning to do with a twenty-eight-year-old Charlotte? Recite poetry at her?

None of your business! He snapped, grabbing the suitcase handle. Were going to travel! Walk under the moon, seize the day! Theres life in the old dog yet!

He tried to haul the suitcase up, only to be betrayed by its surprising weight. Something twinged in his back but, gritting his teeth, Howard pretended everything was tip-top.

Never show weakness in front of your soon-to-be-ex.

Dont forget your blood pressure pills, Casanova, Margaret called, returning to her pillowcases. Theyre in the top drawer. And the ointment for your joints.

I dont need them! Howard lied gallantly, though his heart was hammering in his throat. With her, I feel thirty again! Thats it, Maggie. Goodbye. You can keep the flatIm a gent, after all.

Much obliged, provider, she nodded. Leave your keys on the table. And take out the rubbish if youre going that way.

That finished him. No drama, not even a melodramatic pleajust take out the rubbish.

He picked up the bin bag by the door and strode out, chin lifted in mortal dignity. The door clicked softly behind him, no dramatic slam.

Our hero found himself in the stairwell, which smelled of damp cat and someones burnt toast. The suitcase strained his shoulder; his back ached. His phone buzzed; probably Charlotte, his damsel, awaiting her knight.

He summoned the lift, and as he waited, fumbled for his smartphone, heart doing the conga. There it was: Darling, are you nearly here? Ive booked us a table. By the wayslight hiccup

He squinted at the message. My darling mother needs medicine and I cant send her the money. Could you possibly transfer me £200? Ill give it back when we meet!

Howard frowned. Two hundred pounds? Strange. Yesterday, it was £120 for a taxi. The day before, £80 for internet. And last week, hed sent £400 for inspiration workshops.

The lift arrived. He dragged the suitcase inside, pressed G. The reflected man in the lifts mirror was a very dignified English gentlemanalbeit one sporting a rosy face and slightly bewildered eyes.

Im off to the young one, he thought heroically, but somehow, it sounded less epic than before.

Outside, a drizzle fell and the wind snatched away the last sorry leaves. Howard set off for the bus stop; Charlotte lived all the way across town, in one of those new developments.

He sat down on a damp bench, pulled out his phone and, with freezing fingers, began to arrange the transfer. His balance: £180. Pension not due for another week.

Bugger, he muttered.

He typed: Char, darling, Ive not got much left on the card. I can bring cash when I visit, I have a little stash at home.

The reply came instantly: an eye-rolling emoji. Followed by: Howard, dont be a child. Borrow it from someone! Mum needs you! If you love me, youll find a way!

Howard. Not Howie, not darlingjust plain Howard. Like he was the neighbours cat.

A chill wormed its way into his heartdefinitely not devotion, more like sticky suspicion.

Come to think of it, hed never actually seen Charlotte on video call. There was always some excuse: cameras broken, or internets rubbish. Meanwhile, her photos looked like she moonlighted for Vogue.

Biting his lip, he decided to calljust to hear her voice. Long rings, then the call was rejected.

A message: Cant talk, Im crying!

Howard sat at the bus stop, clutching his suitcase. Cars flew by, spraying him with muddy water.

The cold seeped through his shirt and autumn jacket. His back ached like an old oak caught in a storm.

Charlotte, he said aloud, trying her name on his tongue. It tasted like plasticine.

Suddenly, another message: Well?? Have you sent it yet? If not, dont bother coming. I dont need a man who cant solve a simple problem.

He stared at the phone until the letters blurred.

He thought of Margaret. How shed silently rubbed ointment into his back the night before. How she made those steamed chicken patties he loathed but ate anyway, because, well, gallbladders are not immortal.

How she knew where every blasted sock was, often better than he did.

I dont need a man he read again.

He imagined himself in Charlottes flat. A strange sofa, strange smells, strange rules. Always on, always impressive. Alwayspaying.

And then he pictured Charlotte having to rub his back, or deal with his aches and pains. Would she fuss, or bolt to another room looking horrified?

Slowly, Howard got up, knees creaking. He watched the bus for the new developments grind to a halt, then glide away, leaving him in a cloud of exhaust.

A minute passed as he stood there, staring into the drizzle. Then he picked up his heavy suitcasesomehow heavier nowand set off home.

The journey back felt endless. The lift was, of course, out of order. Classic. He had to drag the suitcase up three flights.

On every landing he stopped, gasped for breath, and wiped away sweat. His heart thumped, now more with exertion than emotion.

He reached home and pressed the bell, suitcase resting at his side. Silence. No movement within.

A cold panic swept over him. What if shed gone? What if shed changed the locks? After all, hed left the keyslike a prize pillockon the table!

He rang again, longer and louder.

Maggie! he croaked. Its me! Let me in!

The lock clicked and the door opened. There stood Margaret, calm as ever, in her dressing gown.

Howard Cartwright stood bedraggled, mucky, and clutching his rain-soaked cap. Tears ran down his weather-beaten cheeksthe real, miserable kind, the sort that sting.

I I, Maggie the bus and then it rained and I thought

He couldnt admit the truth; hed been played for a fool. It was all too humiliating.

Margaret eyed him, then his suitcase, and sighed.

Did you take out the rubbish? she asked.

Howard looked at his empty hand, dumbfounded. The bin bag was still at the bus stop.

Forgot he mumbled, head lowered.

Margaret shook her head and stood aside, letting him in.

Come on, Romeo. Your teas getting cold. And wash your hands, youre filthy.

He trundled the cursed suitcase inside. The familiar scent of homefresh linen and a whiff of antiseptichit him right in the face.

It was the best smell in the world.

Howard took off his shoes, shuffled to the bathroom. In the mirror, a weary and rather damp old man stared back. He splashed cold water on his face, washing away both tears and embarrassment.

When he entered the kitchen, Margaret was already pouring tea into his favourite big mug. A plate of steamed patties awaited him.

Maggie, he said quietly, sitting down. Forgive me. Silly old fool. Mustve been temporarily possessed.

Eat up, she said drily. Itll get cold.

No, really. I mean it. Charlottewhat a joke. Id be lost without you. I dont even know where the insurance policy is.

In the folder with the documents, top drawer, she replied automatically, seating herself across from him. And look, Howard, lets not have this little performance again, all right? You came backthats the main thing.

He chewed a tasteless patty, which in that moment tasted better than a five-star steak.

And you knowCharlotte she wasnt what I thought. Smokes, believe it or not. And swears.

Margaret glanced over her spectacles, her eyes twinkling despite herself.

Goodness, how shocking, she deadpanned. And you, as a sensitive soul, couldnt tolerate it.

Precisely! Howard perked up. I told her, Madam, your language is thoroughly unbecoming! Imagine! And she

He waved it away.

Point is, I made a mistake. Empty inside, Maggie. Utter vacuum.

Yes, well, she nodded. At least you realised at a bus stop, not at the registry office.

She got up, fetched a tube of ointment, and plonked it on the table.

Your back must be agony after carting that suitcase, hmm?

He blushed.

A bit.

Take off your shirt, Ill rub it in.

He did so, grimacing and creaking. Her hands were firm, used to years of laundry, and her ointment had just enough sting to do some good.

Margaret? he mumbled into the table.

What?

You knew Id come back, didnt you?

Course I did.

How?

She patted him squarely on the good shoulder, letting him know the physio was done.

Because, Howard, you didnt pack any boxers. Or socks. Or medicine.

She half-smiled. You managed to cram in that horrid tartan blanket, and my mink coat I asked you to take to the cleaners.

Howard froze, then turned slowly.

My coat?

My coat. I saw you shove it in there this morning. Did you think I wouldnt notice? Youre as blind as a bat without your glasses.

A pause hung in the kitchen. Howard digested the fact hed tried to start a new life armed with a blanket and his wifes fur coat.

Unexpectedly, he began to laugh. Slowly at first, then louder. The laughter turned to coughing, and then back to laughter again.

Margaret eyed him. The corners of her mouth quivered.

You daft thing, she said, not unkindly. Eat your dinner, you wandering soul. Were off to the allotment tomorrowgot jars to cart down to the cellar. Theres your exercise and fresh air.

Oh, absolutely, darling, Howard agreed, wiping tears from laughter.

His phone buzzed again. Howard checked the screen. Charlotte: Where are you?? Mum is dying!! Send even a hundred!!

He confidently pressed Block. Then Delete Chat. He put the phone face-down on the table.

Maggie, what do you say we forget the jars? he suggested suddenly, looking at her with brand new eyes. Maybe just a bit of barbecue? Ill marinate the meat. Myself. Like you love it, with red onion.

Margarets eyebrows flew up; this was new. Howard hadnt touched the grill in over a decade.

Barbecue? And what about your liver?

Sod the liver, he waved. You only live once.

He took her handthe one roughened by laundry and cookingand kissed it, awkward but sincere.

Thank you for opening the door, Maggie.

She slipped her hand away, not sharply but shyly.

Go on then, Casanova, eat up. Or itll be stone-cold.

Outside, rain pelted the window; wind knocked the branches. But inside was warm and bright. Howards smart shirt hung on a chair, the room smelled of ointment and tea.

And it was better than any perfume.

Howard Cartwright looked at his wife and thought, yes, twenty-eight is quite nice.

But only one woman would know he could pack a fur coat instead of underpants, and still let him come home.

Maggie, he called.

What now?

I really ought to take that coat to the cleaners. Tomorrow, I promise.

Do, dear. And unpack your case. And find the blanket. My feet are freezing.

Howard nodded, taking a great bite of steamed patty.

Life went onand to be perfectly honest, it really wasnt half bad.