At 80 years old, Margaret Whitaker was the talk of the town. The petite, sharp-tongued woman with snow-white curls and a wardrobe full of brightly colored dresses had just announced her fourth marriage. Not surprisingly, the news caught the attention of the local paper. Curious—and admittedly a little nosy—a journalist stopped by her charming little house on Maple Lane to ask the question everyone had been whispering about:
“Margaret, you’ve lived quite the life. But your choice in husbands—well, it’s rather… eclectic. Mind if I ask what they all had in common?”
Margaret chuckled, her eyes twinkling with mischief as she sipped her tea and motioned for the reporter to sit down.
“Oh, honey,” she said, patting the arm of the floral couch beside her, “you better get comfortable. It’s a bit of a tale.”
With a nostalgic sigh, she leaned back and began.
“My first husband was a banker,” she said, a smile playing on her lips. “He was steady, smart, and boy, did he know how to make money multiply. We were young, ambitious, and thought we had forever. We bought a house, took long vacations, and lived the kind of life people wrote Christmas newsletters about. But he passed suddenly—heart attack at 45. Gone in an instant. Left me well taken care of, though, bless him.”
She paused, her gaze drifting for a moment before lighting up again.
“My second husband? Oh, now he was something else entirely. A circus ringmaster. Big voice, bigger presence. He had a mustache that could rival a broom and wore red jackets with gold buttons. He swept me off my feet—literally! He pulled me into his act one night during a show in Ohio, and I never really left. It was all glitter and chaos, tigers and trapeze. He gave me adventure. Laughter. A little motion sickness. But boy, was it fun while it lasted.”
The reporter blinked, clearly surprised. Margaret winked.
“Third time, I went a little more traditional. I married a preacher. Kind, calm, and full of wisdom. He gave me peace and perspective. After the whirlwind of the circus life, I needed grounding. We spent our days organizing food drives, helping the community, and taking long walks in the evenings. He had a voice like warm honey and the patience of a saint. He passed quietly one morning after breakfast, just sat in his chair and slipped away.”
There was a moment of respectful silence before the journalist asked, “And now, you’re marrying… a funeral director?”
Margaret grinned. “Indeed I am. Harold. Tall, gentle, always smells faintly of eucalyptus and wood polish. He’s practical, dependable—and quite frankly, at my age, it’s just good planning.”
The journalist chuckled nervously. “Well, that’s quite the progression. Is there… a reason for the variety in their professions?”
At this, Margaret leaned in, her eyes gleaming like she was about to share the best-kept secret in town.
“Well, darling,” she said, “I married one for the money, two for the show, three to get ready, and four to go.”
There was a beat of silence before the room erupted in laughter.
Margaret sat back, looking pleased as punch. “Life’s too short to be anything but bold and a little bit cheeky. Each one of them gave me something special—security, excitement, wisdom, and now... comfort in knowing someone will take care of things when the curtain finally falls.”
As the journalist packed up their things, still chuckling, they couldn’t help but marvel at Margaret’s spirit—her ability to laugh at life, to find joy even in the shadows, and to turn every chapter into a story worth telling.
Before they left, Margaret called out, “Tell your readers: I’m not collecting husbands—I’m just trying out different flavors of love. And so far, it’s been a delicious journey.”
And with that, she raised her teacup in a toast to a life well-lived—and loved.