Max concealed a regret that he rushed the divorce. Clever men make mistresses a holiday, but he turned hers into a wife.

The buoyant mood that had lifted me as I pulled into the driveway vanished the moment I slipped the car into gear and stepped into the hallway of my flat. At home the familiar routine greeted me: I slipped on my slippers, the scent of a hearty supper wafted from the kitchen, everything was tidy, and a vase of fresh roses stood on the table.

It didnt lift my spirits that the house was empty of any visitors. My wife, Margaret, was at home, and I wondered what a retired lady could possibly be doing all day. Baking pies, knitting socksshed exaggerated the sockknitting, of course, but the point was clear.

Margaret emerged from the kitchen with a smile:

Had a long day? Ive baked your favourite piescabbage, apples, just the way you like them.

She fell silent under my heavy stare. She was in a cosy housecoat, her hair tucked under a scarf, the one she always wore while cooking.

Shed spent her whole life as a chef, a habit that showed in the way she brushed her hair back. Her eyes were lightly lined, a little gloss on her lipsan affectation that now struck me as vulgar, a gaudy attempt to colour her ageing years.

Perhaps Id been too blunt when I snapped:

Makeup at your age is nonsense, it doesnt suit you.

Margarets lips twitched, she said nothing, and she didnt even set the table for me. That was probably for the best. The pies were under a cloth, the tea was readyshed let me fend for myself.

After a shower and dinner, the kindness Id felt earlier crept back, as did the days memories. I slipped into my favourite plush robe, settled into the armchair that seemed made for me, and pretended to read. As the new junior partner had once remarked, Youre quite an attractive man, and rather intriguing.

I was fiftysix, head of the legal department at a large firm. Under my wing was a fresh graduate from university and three women in their forties. Another colleague had just gone on maternity leave, and her place was about to be filled by a new recruit, Holly.

At the time of her induction, I was on a business trip, so today was the first time Id met her in person.

I invited her into my office for a quick introduction. The moment she entered, a subtle perfume and a breath of youthful freshness filled the room. Her face was an oval framed by soft, lightbrown curls, blue eyes that shone with confidence, plump lips, and a small beauty mark on her cheek. Could she really be only thirty? I could have sworn she was younger than twentyfive.

She was divorced and mother to an eightyearold boy. I didnt understand why, but I thought, Why not?.

Talking with Holly, I fumbled a little, telling her she now had an oldfashioned boss. She fluttered her long lashes and replied in a way that made my heart race.

Margaret, having set aside her annoyance, appeared with a cup of chamomile tea. I frowned, thinking, Never the right time.

She sipped the tea, not without a hint of satisfaction. Suddenly I wondered what a young, pretty woman like Holly could be up to now, and a longdormant jealousy pricked at my chest.

***

After work, Holly stopped at the local supermarket, bought some cheese, a loaf of bread, and a bottle of kefir for dinner. She returned home looking neutral, no smile on her face, and wrapped her son, Billy, in a quick, almost mechanical hug as he ran out to greet her.

I was tinkering on the balcony, where I keep my small workshop, while Margaret prepared the evening meal. As soon as the groceries were unpacked, she announced a pounding headache and asked not to be disturbed. In truth, she seemed melancholy.

Holly, having separated from Billys father years ago, still mourned the failed attempts to become a proper matriarch. Everyone she met seemed happily married, seeking only easy relationships.

She eventually found a job at the same firm, and for two passionate years we were practically inseparable. I even let her rent my flatmostly for my conveniencebut the moment the smell of fried food drifted from the kitchen, I declared that we needed to part ways and that she should be let go.

She found another place on her own. Soon she moved back in with her parents and Billy. Her mother coddled her, while her father insisted a child should grow up with his mother, not just grandparents.

Margaret had long noticed that I was going through a midlife crisis. Everything seemed in place, yet something essential was missing. She feared becoming the main thing for me, so she tried to soften the blow: cooking my favourite dishes, staying wellkept, avoiding deepheart conversations, even though she craved them.

She tried to win me over with trips to the country house, but I stayed gloomy and withdrawn.

Probably because we both longed for change, the affair with Holly ignited instantly. Within two weeks of her joining the firm, I invited her out for lunch and gave her a lift home.

I brushed her hand, and she turned to me with a flushed cheek.

I dont want us to end, I rasped. Come to my cottage for the weekend? Holly nodded, and the car sped off.

On Fridays I left work an hour early, but by nine at night my worried wife sent a text: We need to talk tomorrow.

I had no idea how sharply she would phrase the inevitable conversation. Margaret knew that after thirtytwo years of marriage, the flame could not burn as it once did.

Yet losing me felt like losing a part of herself. Even if I grumbled, sulked, or acted the typical old man, I remained on my favourite armchair, eating dinner, breathing beside her.

Margaret tossed and turned, searching for words to halt the disintegration of her life, staying awake until dawn. In despair she pulled out our wedding album, the one from when we were young and everything lay ahead. She looked beautiful then, and many had once wanted her for themselves.

She hoped that, if I saw those snapshots, I might remember that not everything can be discarded.

But I returned only on Sunday, and she realised it was over. Before her stood a different Maxadrenaline coursing through his veins, no shame, no embarrassment.

Unlike Margaret, who feared change, I welcomed it and embraced it without hesitation. I even spoke in a tone that brooked no dissent.

From that moment Margaret could consider herself free. She would file for divorce tomorrow, on her own. Billys family would move in with her, as the law allowed. The twobed flat where Billys family had lived was, on paper, minean inheritance.

The threebed flat we would move into with my mother would not affect the young couples living standards, and I would retain the car, of course. As for the country cottage, I kept the right to use it whenever I wished.

Margaret felt pathetic and unattractive, tears streaming down her face, making her words slur. She begged me to stop, to think of her health, at least her own. My anger flared. I leaned in, whispershouted:

Dont drag me into your old age!

It would be foolish to claim Holly fell in love with me and accepted my proposal on that first night at the cottage. The allure of a married woman excited her, and the thought of a lover whod turned his back on her was intoxicating.

She was tired of living under her fathers stern gaze, craving stability. I could provide that, she admitted, even if I wasnt the worst option.

Even in my sixties, I didnt look like a granddad. I was lean, youthfullooking, a department headsmart at work, pleasant in conversation, and in bed showed enthusiasm, not ego. I could promise her a roof, no rent, no debt, no theft. The only doubt lingered over my age.

A year later Hollys disappointment grew. She still felt like a teenager, yearning for excitementconcerts, a day at the water park, sunbathing in a bold bikini, evenings out with friends. Her youthful temper let her blend all that with family life; even Billy, now living with her, didnt hinder her active lifestyle.

Meanwhile I, an experienced lawyer, could solve endless work problems in a day, yet at home I appeared exhausted, craving quiet and respect for my habits. Guests, theatre outings, even beach trips were welcomebut in measured doses.

I never objected to intimacy, but I retired to bed by nine.

My weak stomach could no longer tolerate fried foods, sausages, or processed meals. My former wife had, of course, spoiled me with her stews. I sometimes missed her steamcooked dishes. Holly cooked for Billy, never realising how pork cutlets could upset my side.

She never kept a list of my medication, assuming an adult man could remember when to take what. Consequently, large parts of her life passed without me.

She integrated Billys interests into her plans, joined her friends, and, oddly, my age seemed to push her to rush forward.

We no longer worked together; the firm deemed it unethical, so Holly moved to a notary office. She sighed with relief, glad she wouldnt spend every day under the stare of a man who reminded her of her father.

Respect was the feeling Holly held for meperhaps enough to keep a partnership happy.

My sixtieth birthday approached, and she wanted a grand celebration. I booked a table at a small, familiar restaurant where Id dined many times before. It seemed I was bored, but thats natural at my age. Holly didnt mind.

Colleagues, couples Id once socialised with alongside Margaret, were awkward to invite. Family lived far away, and I found little understanding in my marriage to a younger woman.

Billy was no longer my son; hed left. Yet does a father not have the right to decide his own life? When I married Holly, I thought arrangement would look a bit different.

Our first year together felt like a honeymoon. I loved being seen in public with her, encouraging her modest spending, meeting her friends, enjoying fitness classes. I tolerated loud concerts and wild movies. On that wave, I made Holly and Billy full owners of my flat, and later granted her a share of the country cottage with my former wife.

Behind my back, Holly asked Margaret to surrender her half of the property, threatening to sell it to strangers. She bought it with my money, transferred the cottage into her name, justifying it by the river and woodsperfect for a child. All summer, Hollys parents and grandson stayed at the cottage. I didnt particularly like Billy, the noisy son of my young wife. Id married for love, not to raise someone elses child.

My former family felt wounded. After receiving the cash, they sold their threebed flat and, oddly enough, drifted apart. Billys family found a twobed flat, and Margaret moved into a studio. I paid them no mind.

Now came my sixtieth birthday. Dozens of people sent heartfelt wishes for health, happiness, love. I felt no spark, not for years. Each passing year brought a familiar dissatisfaction.

I loved my young wife, but I couldnt keep up with her pace. I couldnt dominate her, she lived her own way, allowing herself no excessyet it irritated me.

If only I could give her the soul of my former wife, the one who would sit with a cup of chamomile tea, blanket her when she dozed off, stroll with her through the park, whisper in the kitchen at night. Holly, however, could not endure my endless monologues, and she seemed to tire of the bedroom. My nerves got in the way.

I regretted rushing the divorce. Wise men turn lovers into celebrations, not just wives!

Holly, with her vivacious spirit, could easily stay a playful horse for at least ten more years, but after forty shed still look decades younger. It was a chasm that would only deepen. If luck were on my side, Id end my days in a single breath; if not

These unanniversary thoughts throbbed in my temples, quickening my heartbeat. I searched for Holly among the dancersbeautiful, eyes sparkling, happiness glowing.

Seizing the moment, I left the restaurant, intent on clearing my mind. Colleagues lingered, and, overwhelmed by a rising inner tension, I jumped into a taxi waiting at the curb, urging the driver to hurry. Id decide my route later.

I longed for a place where only I mattered, where I could walk in and be awaited, where time with me was valued and I could relax without fearing Id appear weak or, God forbid, old.

I phoned my son, almost pleading for my exwifes new address. He answered, a little irritated, but repeated that it was a matter of life and well, you get the idea.

I muttered that today was my anniversary after all. He softened, saying his mother could have more than one mannot a husband, just a friend.

Mom said they went to school together. Her surname was funny Bulkin, I think.

Bulkin, I corrected, feeling a sting of jealousy. Yes, Id once been smitten with her. Shed been popular thenbeautiful, cheeky.

Shed been set to marry that Bulkin, and Id stood her up. It was long ago, but it felt as fresh as yesterday, more real than my present life with Holly.

My son asked, What do you want it for, dad?

I shivered at the forgotten term of endearment and answered honestly:

I dont know, son.

He dictated the new address. The driver, at my request, stopped. I stepped out, not keen on speaking with Margaret in front of witnesses. The clock read almost nine; she was the owl that sang like a lark to me.

I pressed the intercom.

A hoarse male voice answered, not Margarets. Shes busy, it said.

Whats wrong with her? Is she alright? I demanded. The voice identified itself.

Its me, Mr. Bulkin, he shouted.

He corrected my title, insisting I was the former husband and thus had no right to bother Margaret. He gave no excuse about a friend taking a bath.

What, old love doesnt rust? I asked, laced with jealous sarcasm, bracing for a longwinded clash. He replied shortly:

No, it turns silver.

The door never opened

I waited a heartbeat longer, the thin hallway light flickering above the intercom like a hesitant reminder of all the moments Id let slip by. The door creaked open, and Margaret stood there, her hair damp from the shower, eyes rimmed with the faintest trace of tears that caught the glow of the bulb.

You came back, she said, voice steadier than I expected. I thought youd never

I swallowed the rehearsed line that had built up in my throat and let the silence settle between us. It was not the triumphant return of a conquering hero, but the soft, unsteady arrival of a man who finally understood the weight of his own footsteps.

Im sorry, I finally managed, the words tasting like ash. For everything. For the words I threw at you, for the promises I broke, for the years I spent chasing shadows.

She let out a breath that seemed to carry away years of frustration. We both were scared, she replied, a faint smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. I thought if I clung tighter, I could keep the world from slipping away. You thought if you ran faster, you could outrun the emptiness. Neither worked.

In that cramped hallway, the past folded into the present. The scent of the cabbageapple pie lingered faintly from the kitchen, a reminder of the comfort we once shared. I could hear the distant murmur of Hollys laughter from the next flat, a reminder of the life I had tried to build on shaky ground.

I looked at her, really looked, and saw not the woman I had tried to control, but the person who had, for decades, tended the garden of our shared memoriesplanting patience, pruning bitterness, watering hope. The ache in my chest softened, not because I was absolved, but because I finally allowed it to be felt.

What do we do now? I asked, the question as much for myself as for her.

She reached out, her hand warm against the cool metal of the doorframe, and touched my cheek. We let go, she whispered. We let the things that are no longer ours drift away, and we keep the ones that matterrespect, gratitude, the quiet moments that still belong to us, even if were no longer together.

The intercom buzzed one last time, a soft chime that seemed to signal a new beginning. I stepped back, feeling the floorboards beneath my feet with a clarity I hadnt felt in years. Outside, the sky was turning a pale gold, the first light of dawn creeping over the rooftops, promising another day. I walked toward the balcony, the workshop where I often lost myself in tinkering, and opened the door to the crisp morning air.

The wind brushed against my face, carrying with it the faint scent of rosemary from Margarets garden and the distant echo of childrens laughter from Billys playground. I inhaled deeply, feeling the weight of my choices settle into a quiet acceptance. I didnt know what the future heldwhether Hollys vivacity would ever align with the rhythm of my heart, whether my son would forgive the gaps in his memories, or whether I would ever find a peace that felt like home.

All I knew was that the river of my life, once muddied by reckless currents, now ran clearer. I could hear the soft rustle of pages turning in the old wedding album on the table, the gentle clink of a teacup in the kitchen, the faint hum of a distant traineach sound a reminder that life continued, beautiful in its imperfections.

I turned back to the balcony, set down the toolbox, and for the first time in a long while, simply watched the sunrise without the urge to change it. The world was moving forward, and so was I, carrying with me the lessons of love, loss, and the quiet courage it takes to face each new day with an open heart.