Winding through the trees, I take a shortcut to Margaret’s house. The damp earth clings to the soles of my outdoor shoes, and I am grateful I didn’t wear my other pair, or I would have ruined them with the lingering mud from the rain. There’s something calming about this route—the quiet rustling of the trees, the fresh scent of wet leaves, the feeling of being away from the prying eyes of the world. Sometimes, when I decide to sneak over to Margaret’s house late at night, I enter through her window. Edward just thinks I go on night walks. I smile at the thought of his ignorance. When I first did this, I honestly found it shocking when he didn’t so much as raise an eyebrow when he found out I left home late at night. “It is no big deal; this is a safe place,” he had said with that disarming smile of his when I questioned what he thought about my “night walks.” It’s one of those things that makes me wonder about him—how easily he trusts, how simple his worldview is.

Good thing he only thinks they’re just night walks. If he ever found out what I truly do when I leave the house at night, I am utterly convinced he would kill me. Maybe even literally. I cannot tell what a man like him would do when he encounters what he calls a “sexual deviant.” It’s a label that both frightens and fuels me, but what would be worse is if he knew the truth: that his wife is lying to him, sneaking away under the cover of darkness to spend time with another woman. The thought of him finding out sends a chill down my spine.

This time, though, since it’s still the afternoon, I climb up the cracked stone steps that lead to the Browns’ front door. The door is a dark brown single door, framed by an arched window, just like the one at my own home. It’s a door I’ve walked through countless times, yet it still makes me feel like I’m stepping into a piece of my heart—something familiar, something I’ll never tire of. I look around at what is, essentially, my second home. The stone fencing surrounding the house is old and moss-covered, a testament to the years it has stood there, untouched by time in a way that comforts me. The front lawn is a garden in its own right, filled with flowers of all shapes and sizes. Beneath the windows, bushes of roses bloom, their fresh, radiant smell filling the surrounding air and swirling into the very fibers of my being. It’s a smell that reminds me of happiness—of simpler times, before everything got complicated.

I take a moment to take it all in. I glance at the flower garden that has grown, expanding outward and filling every empty space. On the dirt pathway leading up to the steps, poppies line the sides, their red petals bright and defiant against the green of the grass. I remember when Margaret and I were children, about ten years old, and we had planted those poppies together. She had begged her parents for them, and after much convincing, they had finally relented. We were thrilled, so thrilled, that Margaret had trouble deciding where to put them. The stones of the old path had been worn, and over time, they were replaced with a dirt one. Despite that change, nothing has altered the memories we created in this place. Those poppies, once vibrant and new, have now settled into the earth like old friends returning home.

Beyond the poppies, there’s a patch of daisies on the right side of the lawn. They aren’t all the same; some are red, others are purple, and some even lean toward pink. In between them are clusters of garden cosmos and coneflowers, their petals in soft shades of pink and lavender, while others are yellow, so strikingly close to sunflowers, yet still a world apart. The sight always makes me smile. There’s something beautiful about how the colors clash, yet complement one another in a dance only nature could orchestrate. On the left side, bushes of hydrangeas stand, their colors a gradient from dusky blue to lilac to light green. They seem to whisper, calming me in ways I cannot fully understand.

I turn back to the front door, my thoughts momentarily lost in the flowers. I can hear the lock from inside the house turning, the sound of the door being unlatched. It’s a familiar sound, one that always precedes a warm welcome. The door cracks open, just a sliver, but it’s enough to reveal Mrs. Brown, Margaret’s mother. She’s a small figure, barely five feet tall, but her presence is unmistakable. Despite her diminutive stature, she carries an air of authority in the way she stands. I, myself, am not particularly tall, but I can’t help but feel a little taller than her.

“Oh, Florence! You came back very early from your honeymoon. What happened?” Mrs. Brown asks, rubbing her forehead. The expression is familiar—a sign of slight annoyance. It’s a look I’ve seen countless times, but today, it’s accompanied by something else. There’s an edge to it, a tiredness that’s new. She looks older than I remember, her once-vibrant red hair pulled back into a messy bun, stray strands framing her face, which now carries the weight of something heavier than just age. Her eyes are tired, and there’s a deepening of the lines around her forehead and eyes that weren’t there when I last saw her.

“Edward didn’t feel too well. Is Margaret here? If so, can I please see her? I need to talk to her about something.” My voice is gentle, but inside, I’m already on edge. Something doesn’t feel right.

She pauses for a moment, looking me over as if weighing my words. “Yes, she’s here. You can come in, but she might not be in the best mood. We had a bit of an argument.”

I try to suppress the flash of anger that rises within me. I can already guess what the argument was about. It’s always the same—her marriage, her future, her life. But I can’t let that anger show, not now. Not in front of Mrs. Brown. “I’m sorry to hear that,” I reply, doing my best to mask my feelings behind a sympathetic expression. Inside, though, my mind is racing. What if they were arguing about her getting married again? I can’t bear the thought of it. But then again, who knows? What if it’s something else entirely?

Mrs. Brown opens the door wider and motions for me to come in. The familiar smell of the house greets me—wood and tea, with a faint undertone of lavender that always makes me feel at home. The layout of this house is nearly identical to my own cottage, but smaller, more cramped, with less room for all the memories that could fill it. I step into the living room, my gaze quickly scanning the space. There are two coffee-brown couches, one larger than the other, both adorned with vine-like designs etched into the fabric. Sitting on the larger couch is Mr. Brown, his face worn and tired, just like his wife’s. His bald spot atop his head has grown larger in recent weeks, and the rest of his hair—rich brown, thick—only makes the spot more noticeable. He’s dressed in his work suit, likely just returned from his lunch break. I glance at the clock—2:20. I know his lunch break ends at 2:30, so he must have been preparing to leave again.

On the smaller couch sits Margaret, and the sight of her makes my heart skip a beat. Her green eyes widen in surprise, her jaw dropping as she stares at me. It’s clear that she didn’t expect me to come back this early. “You saved me,” she mouths, and I feel a wave of affection wash over me. I try to hide my smile, but it’s impossible. It spreads across my face like wildfire, and I can’t help but feel that familiar warmth every time I see her.

“Margaret! Florence came to see you,” Mrs. Brown explains. “Her honeymoon got cut short because Edward wasn’t feeling well.” She sounds a little too casual about it, like it’s no big deal.

“Oh, okay. So that means we’ll pick up this discussion another time, right?” Margaret says, her voice tinged with hope. She’s trying to keep the peace, trying to make it seem like nothing is wrong. I admire her for that, but I know better than to believe it.

“I suppose,” Mr. Brown says with a sigh, adjusting his glasses before standing up and walking toward me. “Good to see you again, Florence. How was the honeymoon, despite it ending early?”

“It was great,” I reply quickly, my voice light, though the weight of the truth behind the words hangs heavily in the air. “We went to the beach a lot, then we visited one of Edward’s friends in the countryside. It was very fun, overall. We’re planning to go back there in a few months to make up for cutting it short.”

“Very good, very good,” Mr. Brown says, wrapping his arm around my shoulders in a gesture of affection that I’ve known since childhood. It’s not at all awkward. “Well, enjoy your time with Margaret. I’m off to work now; my lunch break is almost over.”

“Okay! Bye!” I say, offering him a smile as he removes his arm and kisses his wife. Then he waves to Margaret and heads out the door, leaving me alone with her.

Mrs. Brown pauses at the door before speaking again. “I’m going out for a little while, maybe about an hour. You two behave, okay?”

“Yes, mom,” Margaret sighs, rolling her eyes as she waves her hand dismissively. “You can go now. Shoo.”

I laugh at her tone, but there’s a sense of affection in it too. The funny thing about Margaret and her parents is that she can be sassy with them, and they let her get away with it. They’ve been used to her attitude since she was little, and although it’s softened over the years, it still peeks out every now and then.

Once Mrs. Brown is gone, I waste no time. I slip into Margaret’s lap, feeling her arms wrap around me almost instinctively. Her lips brush my cheek in a gentle kiss. “How’s my baby doing?” she murmurs, her voice soft and full of warmth.

“I’m doing pretty good,” I giggle, trying to hold back the childlike joy that bubbles up inside me when she tickles my neck.

Margaret pulls back slightly, her green eyes sparkling with mischief. “Why did you come back so early?”

“What, did you not want me to come back?” I ask, my tone playful, though there’s an undercurrent of concern I can’t fully hide.

“Of course I wanted you to come back!” she exclaims. “It’s because of the man, right? Is he doing alright?”

I roll my eyes. “Yes, it’s because of him. Turns out he likely has prediabetes, maybe even diabetes. We’re waiting for the tests to come back, but you know how he is—he doesn’t take care of himself.”

Margaret frowns. “Oh dear. That’s honestly kind of tragic, even I must say so myself.”

She pauses, clearly thinking, then looks at me with a mischievous glint in her eye. “But you know, if things get worse for him, and he has to stay in a medical center or something... we could just spend all our time together, and—”

“Margaret!” I gasp, my hand flying out to punch her lightly on the arm. I don’t mean to hurt her, but the frustration bubbles up inside me. She always wishes the worst for Edward, and it’s exhausting sometimes. The man is my friend for heaven’s sake. Of course, I don’t want anything bad to happen to him!

“What?” she draws out, rubbing the spot where I hit her. She winces slightly, probably more out of surprise than pain. “I was just saying!”

“Just saying? Honestly, sometimes I don’t know about you,” I mutter, half-amused, half-annoyed. But as I look into her eyes, I can’t help but smile. No matter how exasperating she can be, I can’t imagine my life without her.

Margaret takes a deep breath. “Fine. I am sorry, that was wrong of me to do. But I have been doing slightly better about it recently; you cannot deny it. I do not know why that slipped out of my mouth. I am sorry.” Her eyes hold a quiet sincerity, and I can see the vulnerability in the way she shifts her weight from one foot to the other.

“It is alright,” I reply, rubbing the same spot where I hit Margaret. The skin there still feels a little warm, but I hope it isn’t bruised. “I did not hurt you, did I?”

“No. It just hurt a bit for a second. I was not expecting it, so that is why I winced.” Margaret shakes her head, a small smile appearing on her lips, the tension between us lifting ever so slightly. She is always quick to forgive, which is one of the things I love about her. That, and her ability to understand things that I cannot put into words.

Margaret gently lifts me up from her lap and stands, her hands steady but strong. She sets me down on the ground with an ease that never fails to impress me. One of the sexiest things about her, I think, is her strength. The way her muscles flex and ripple when she picks me up, especially when she wears a short-sleeved dress. The sight of her strength is electric to me, even more so when it is so effortless. I love how it contrasts with her gentle demeanor, how she’s both a force of nature and a calming presence at the same time. There’s something about women with muscles, something I can’t quite describe but feel deep in my bones. It’s the raw power, the quiet confidence, the way they stand out without saying a word. It turns me on. There’s no denying it.