No matter what happened, she would tell herself:
“Everything happens for a good reason. This helps…”
He had spent weeks gathering courage, and finally, today, he told her his decision to leave. He’d collect his things in a month—after a holiday in Spain—but today marked the start of his new life. Without her. And yes, he’d fallen in love with someone else. These things happen, sweetheart. What could you do? Don’t be sad—life goes on.
He expected tears, but she calmly brewed coffee, neatly sliced cheese and a loaf of rosemary bread. She filled her cup, watched the fragrant steam swirl, then added cream. Taking the first sip, she smiled. “Perfect.”
He braced for shouting, a scene, but she ate two sandwiches with relish, washed up, admired herself in the mirror, and left for work. At the door, she blew him a kiss. The hallway carried the faint, delicate scent of lavender.
That evening, he wondered about her—how she must be grieving without him, drowning in tears.
Instead, she wandered a furniture showroom, eyeing side tables and cabinets, savouring the freedom of making choices without compromise. She spotted a cosy walnut kitchen, fell in love, and bought it.
He waited—expected calls, pleas to return—but her phone stayed silent.
She adopted a stray tabby, named him Simon, bathed him, treated his scratches, and cooked him broth-soaked porridge. The cat proved a splendid companion, ate gratefully, and adored watching the world from the window, curled in a woolly throw.
Surely she felt abandoned, heartbroken—he was certain. But she bought canvas, brushes, and joined a painting class. Always fond of art, now she revelled in uninterrupted hours, no need to drop everything, rush home, or wait for him.
Once, he called. She didn’t answer.
In the oven, a golden raspberry tart with clotted cream glaze bubbled. Vanilla and berry sweetness filled the kitchen. Simon licked cream from his whiskers as friends arrived to see her debut (if unfinished) painting.
A month later, he returned for his belongings. Probably expecting candles, wine, a clinging dress, he smirked to himself. The flat was quiet, his bags packed by the door. No candles. No wine. The air smelled of apples and fresh grass—new perfume, he noted. The kitchen gleamed with new fittings—tasteful, inviting. A day off, yet she was nowhere in sight.
She was driving to the countryside. In the backseat lay her first two paintings from a series about a ginger cat: *Cat in the Meadow* and *Cat Among Daisies*. Painted just for joy, but friends—a married couple—had adored them and bought them for their cottage.
Plans for *Courting the Charming British Shorthair* and *Moonlit Rooftop Rendezvous* were already forming.
Beside her, Simon—a large, handsome tabby—perched on the passenger seat. His glossy fur shone in the sun as he watched passing trees and cottages. Occasionally, he glanced at her, eyes asking: *All well?*
“Everything is absolutely wonderful,” she replied. And both smiled, content.
Some losses aren’t losses at all—just the quiet beginning of something far brighter.
