**Diary Entry – 12th April**
It’s the same routine every evening. After work, I walk home slowly—no need to rush, no one’s waiting. At fifty, life’s become quiet. My daughter married young, moved away with her army husband, gave me a grandson, but visits are rare.
*Fifty isn’t old, is it? I still feel young inside, though sometimes there’s no energy left for new beginnings. Just work, caring for Mum, the same dull cycle. Colleagues chatter about love and romance—what’s that to me? My chance at happiness is long gone.*
Robert died seven years ago—weak heart. We had our ups and downs, but it was bearable. Now and then, I miss him.
Tonight, the usual trio of neighbours sat on the bench by the door.
«Evening,» I said politely.
«Back from work, love?» asked Margaret from the ground floor.
«Where else?» I laughed.
«Could’ve been a date!» teased Linda, the second.
«Oh, please—I’m fifty, not twenty.»
«Fifty’s nothing,» Margaret insisted. «You’re still young. Look at you—elegant, trim. Life begins now. I met my Arthur at fifty, and we’ve had twenty-five good years.»
«Well, not everyone’s so lucky,» I muttered, slipping inside.
Later, her words lingered. *Why do they sting? It’s too late for me.* Then I remembered Paul from work—divorced, always drinking. *No, thank you. Better alone than with the wrong man.*
The next evening, walking home with Emily, our usual route, I noticed *him*. Never one to gawk, I usually keep my eyes down, but something made me look up.
A man, average height, greying at the temples—well-kept, polished shoes, stylish. *I’ve always liked a man who takes care of his shoes.*
As we passed, he was watching me—not just glancing, but *looking*, with a quiet smile. I hurried on, but his face stayed with me all evening.
*What’s wrong with me? It’s just spring stirring nonsense.*
Yet, we kept meeting. Same time, same street. By the fifth evening, I snapped.
«Why do you keep staring?»
«How else should a man look at an interesting woman?»
I’ve heard lines before, but his gaze was different. Warm. Suddenly, joy surged—wild and unfamiliar. *I thought my heart was just a pump. But it’s alive, trembling. At my age!*
I rushed home, legs unsteady. Glanced back—he was still watching.
That night, I couldn’t sleep. *I prayed for love. Is this it?*
Days passed. We exchanged nods, smiles. Evenings, I’d replay his expression. Nights, I’d imagine his arm around me, his lips—*stop this, you fool.*
Then, one evening, he wasn’t there. Disappointment bit harder than I expected.
Until the doorbell rang.
There he stood, holding lilacs. Their scent mixed with his cologne, flooding the hallway.
«Forgive the intrusion. I’m Edward. You’re Catherine?» He grinned. «I asked your neighbours—had to know if you were married.»
Tea trembled in my hands. He spoke, but I barely heard. Then—tears.
«I thought solitude was strength. Now I don’t know.»
«I understand,» he said softly. «Come, let’s walk.»
Outside, the neighbours cackled. «Don’t get lost, love!»
We wandered for hours. Blossoms perfumed the air. *Let this never end.*
At my door, he kissed my hand. «Goodnight.»
That night, I slept deeply. Woke lighter.
By noon, he was back—champagne, chocolates. I barely set them down before stepping into his arms.
«I’ve waited so long,» I whispered.
Over dinner, he explained: visiting his sister, kids grown. We talked till dawn. Then—a night. Not fiery like youth, but tender. *Love, slow and sure.*
Next morning: «Your holiday’s next week. Fancy Cornwall?»
«My dream!» *I’d planned it since winter.*
Two weeks by the sea. Sun on our shoulders, waves humming. Then home, a quiet wedding. The kids approved.
Years later, we’re still here. His eyes still crinkle when he smiles; mine still brighten when he enters. They say love conquers all ages.
And I’ve learned: ask, and it shall be given.
**Lesson:** Hope doesn’t expire. Sometimes, it’s just waiting for the right moment to knock.