Two Families, Two Loves
When Daisy moved into her husband Anthony’s flat, their neighbours, Mary and George, had already been living there for years. Friendly and polite, they were always quick to lend a hand.
«Daisy, you and Anthony must come over—I’ve baked George’s favourite biscuits,» Mary often invited.
Daisy would watch them and wonder:
«They’re not young anymore, yet the love and respect between them is so strong—you can feel it the moment you step into their home.»
They’d raised a son, now married, and even had a grandson, little Archie. Years passed. Both were retired, but Mary’s friends and neighbours still admired her husband.
«That George of yours is a dream—loyal, devoted, never so much as glanced at another woman. You two are like swans, inseparable. You’ve got to tell us your secret.»
«Oh, you lot and your nosy questions!» Mary would laugh, but if George overheard, he’d join in.
«Honestly, I’ve never felt the need for another woman. Why would I? It’d be an insult—not just to Mary, but to myself. I love my Mary, and she loves me. And love…» He’d raise a finger skyward. «Love’s decided up there, and so’s your other half.»
Mary was fiery, George calm and gentle. Yet they never had those explosive rows where plates might fly. Mary’s temper never lasted long—she’d always be the first to make up. A hug, a whispered apology, and her anger would melt in minutes. George treasured that, never holding a grudge.
«Mary, love, what was that last row about, again?» he’d ask, scratching his head.
She’d laugh. «No idea. Water under the bridge.»
To her friends, she confessed:
«If George is gone more than an hour, I miss him. When I’m out, he’s at the window waiting. We do everything together—hardly spent a day apart in all these years.»
Such couples were rare. From the very first day, they’d cherished each other.
«Mary, don’t you ever get tired of him? How d’you keep the spark alive all these years? How can one woman be enough for a lifetime?»
«If you love your man, he’s your prince, your teacher, your hero, your friend. And forget those fairy tales—just slipping on glass slippers and a pretty dress won’t make you ‘the one.’ That title’s earned. You’ve got to be strong but soft, kind but wise, know when to laugh and when to listen. Wrap it all in love.» Her friends would scoff, giggle, shake their heads—but they didn’t believe her.
On Mary’s sixty-seventh birthday, she fell ill. She was gutted.
«Should we cancel? Guests are already invited.»
«Don’t be daft, love. You rest—sleep it off. We’ll sort everything.»
Mary took a pill and drifted off, dreaming something sweet. When she woke, the smell of something delicious hit her. She shuffled to the kitchen and—oh my! There stood George and little Archie, wearing makeshift paper hats and aprons, cooking up a storm. A roast chicken, fresh from the oven, even pineapple on the table.
«Mary, love, how’re you feeling? We’ve been busy here, me and Archie…»
«Bit weak, but I’ll manage. Guests’ll be here soon.»
She was grateful for George—handy at everything, even whipping up a feast. And he’d let her sleep, recover. Their hearts beat in harmony, a symphony of love.
Daisy, their neighbour, never bought into it. When Mary first saw her, she’d whispered to George:
«Daisy carries herself like a queen. And Anthony? Just a plain, clever bloke. Where’d he find a wife like that?»
Daisy adored attention—spoiled, capricious. Some women disliked her; others hung on her every word. A few even envied in secret:
«Some people just have it all, don’t they?»
She’d married young, hadn’t had her fun, then realised she could make up for lost time. And Anthony—bookish, buried in his research—couldn’t possibly treat her like royalty. So Daisy sought admirers elsewhere.
At first, guilt nagged her. Then she grew to relish it. She lost count of how many there’d been. She loved the power, but the lavish gifts hooked her more.
Then, unexpectedly, Daisy fell hard. One date with Danny, a burly gym enthusiast, and she was sure she’d found true happiness. He met every demand, even crowned her his queen.
«That’s it. Time to end it,» she decided mid-date. «If I lose Danny, I’ll never find this again.» Studying her reflection, she smirked. «Who wouldn’t want me? Perfect figure, gorgeous face…»
Peering at herself in a stranger’s bathroom mirror, she made up her mind:
«No more Anthony. Divorce him—how much longer can I put up with this?»
On the ride home, Daisy brooded. Anthony had grown stranger by the day—irritatingly cheerful, feeding strays, savouring sunrises. Barely noticing his wife’s infidelity.
She checked her watch.
«Nearly midnight. Anthony’s long asleep—won’t even ask where I’ve been. Fine by me. Tomorrow, I’ll tell him, then move back to Mum’s. Enough hiding, enough lies.»
The flat was silent. A note on the kitchen table:
«Darling, dinner’s ready—heat it up. At my sister’s, she’s poorly. Don’t be cross. Night.»
«God, what’s he gonna do? Nurse her? Useless lump.»
Not hungry, she headed to bed—then spotted a blue folder Anthony always hid. Inside: medical documents. The word «clinic» jumped out. Reading further, her stomach dropped. A thin stack of prescriptions, test results—cancer. Diagnosed six months ago.
The last six months—when he’d irritated her most. She grabbed her phone. «Out of service.»
«Of course—turned it off for his sister.» Then it hit her. «That’s why… Those pills he sneaked—I never even asked. Didn’t care.»
That night, Daisy didn’t sleep. She knelt before the Virgin Mary icon her mother had gifted them, praying, begging for Anthony’s life. Memories flooded her—skipping lectures as students, stealing kisses in dark cinemas (who cared about the film?). The simple wedding ring he’d bought hauling sacks off trains at night, slipping it onto her finger with pride. Their wedding day, believing endless happiness lay ahead.
«No one ever loved me like Anthony,» she realised. «Faithful, steady, my dearest.»
The next evening, she waited. The moment he stepped in, she blurted:
«I know. We’ll go to the clinic together.»
He hung his head.
«Sorry…»
«For what?»
«Making you suffer.» Tears spilled. «Don’t cry—please.» He brushed them away with his thumbs.
«Forgive me,» she whispered. «It’ll be different now. We’ll hope for the best.»
But miracles are rare. In time, Daisy buried her husband.
Those final months, she never left his side, crafting a heaven for two. Every second, she adored him, worshipped him. Anthony, though guilt-ridden, clung to quiet joy.
Afterward, Daisy changed. She pilgrimaged to monasteries, gave to charity in his memory. Life held no meaning now—just faith that they’d reunite in heaven, never to part.
Mary, George, the neighbours—all stunned by Daisy’s transformation.
«Should’ve loved him like that when he was alive,» George often murmured, gazing at Mary.
But not everyone gets such luck. Old as they are, their love still burns bright.