**When Life Offers a Second Chance**
Susan had her baby at forty-two. A lovely, healthy girl she named Emily. When she was still pregnant, acquaintances would whisper, *Who’s the father?* But no one really knew. Susan and I had been friends for years, though not close enough for me to ask such personal questions.
What did I know about her? Never married. Had a son at twenty. He was twenty-one now, studying at university and living in student halls. The father? A fleeting memory—some bohemian artist flitting between India and Almaty, always broke. Susan did it all alone. And honestly, she always looked a bit worn, a bit grey. Worked in a dull office in the outskirts of Manchester, surrounded by tired women just like her. We pitied her—lonely, joyless, as if life had passed her by.
Then, out of nowhere, a daughter. And with her, a different Susan. Bright, alive, younger somehow. She quit her job, devoted herself entirely to the baby. We, her old friends, wondered—how? Where did the money come from? No one had answers.
One day, I bumped into her in the city centre. Susan was pushing a pram where little Emily slept peacefully. We hugged, chatted, and out of nowhere she said, *Got time? Come over for coffee.*
*But you live clear across town*, I said, surprised.
*Not anymore*, she smiled. *I’m on King Street now.*
I froze. King Street? That was the posh part of town, those grand townhouses…
Her flat was enormous—high ceilings, antique furniture, Persian rugs, oil paintings. I tried counting the rooms and lost track. She laughed, then simply said, *It’s ours now. Mine and Emily’s.*
When the nanny walked in—French, elegant, composed—I was speechless. We moved to a kitchen where the cupboard space rivalled my old garden shed, and Susan poured the wine.
*Want to know how it happened?* she asked, and began her story.
Four years ago, she’d been desperate. Lonely, exhausted, convinced she was invisible. Her son grown, the house silent. Depression set in. To distract herself, she signed up to a dating site—not expecting much, just needing connection. First, second, third dates—all chatterboxes. Then, him. William. Quiet, thoughtful, a mathematician. Sixty-three. Susan scoffed: *Well, I’m no spring chicken either.*
They met in a café. He wore a worn jumper, scuffed Oxford shoes, looked every bit the academic. But he was punctual, polite, measured. Confessed he’d been married twice, had grown children, wanted another. Susan didn’t understand—why? Why start over at his age?
But they kept seeing each other. He courted her gently, old-fashioned. Didn’t even hold her hand until the fourth date. Some days they’d sit in the park, others in modest cafés. Just when Susan decided to end it—*too late for moonlit romance*—he asked, *Fancy a weekend at my place?*
*Of course*, she said.
Saturday arrived with a Range Rover, a driver in a suit offering, *Mrs. Thompson, may I assist with your bags?*
The *place* turned out to be a three-storey estate in the Cotswolds, all rolling lawns and stone fountains. William waited on the steps in a tailored suit, cigar in hand, smiling faintly. She stared, disbelieving.
Turns out, William *was* a mathematician. But in the ‘90s, he’d built a business, navigated every pitfall with that analytical mind. By the 2000s, he was a millionaire. Lived quietly, no flashy displays, but knew time was slipping away. Wanted family, a child. The women chasing wealth bored him. He wanted to test—*Could I find someone who wanted me, not my money?*
He found Susan. Two months of quiet observation. No gifts, no pretence. He needed to know—would she love *him*? And he wasn’t wrong.
They skipped the wedding. Just moved in together. He put everything—house, accounts—in Susan and Emily’s names. Trusted her completely.
When she finished, I said, *It’s a fairy tale. These things don’t happen.*
Susan smiled. *Sometimes I wake up at night and wonder—is this real? Then I hear him breathing beside me, see Emily asleep… and I know. It’s not a dream. Just happiness, late but true.*
