**March 7th**
I, Simon Peterson, have never once bought my wife a gift in the twenty years we’ve been married. It just never happened. Valerie and I wed quickly—just a month after we met. Our courtship, too, was swift, no time for gifts. I’d drive to the village where she lived, whistle under her window, and she’d come running out. We’d sit on the bench by the gate until midnight, barely speaking.
I didn’t even kiss her until after we were engaged. The wedding came and went. Life moved on—days filled with chores, the farm, raising the kids. Simon proved himself a hard worker. Bred livestock, kept the land thriving. Valerie was just as tireless—her garden the envy of the neighbours. Then came the children—nappies, illnesses, never a moment to spare. And so, our life passed, ordinary but steady, holidays marked by simple meals.
Yesterday, I went with my neighbour Tom to sell potatoes and bacon at the market, just before the Eighth of March. I’d sorted through the cellar, decided to sell the extra. Figured, why let the bacon sit? We’d butcher the pig soon enough for fresh cuts. Cold out, but light—spring in the air. Sold everything faster than expected. The bacon flew off the table. The potatoes? Gone like they were some rare treasure. “Good money today,” I thought, pleased. “Val will be happy.”
After stowing the sacks in Tom’s truck, I wandered the shops. Val had asked me to pick up a few things. First, out of habit, I stopped at the pub—just a quick one to toast the day’s luck. Not that I’m a drunk, but I’ve always believed if you don’t drink to good fortune, it won’t come again. A few sips in, I walked down the high street, cheerful, watching the crowds.
Then I saw them. A young couple by a shop window—girl fresh-faced, lad about the same. She stared, transfixed, at a dress on a mannequin.
“Come on, Lucy,” the lad muttered. “It’s just a dress.”
“Look at it—it’s perfect. Vintage. Buy it for me? For Women’s Day?”
“Lucy, we’re skint. If I buy that, we’ll be eating beans for a month.”
“We’ll manage. A year married, and you’ve never bought me a single holiday gift—not even Christmas.”
“Christ, Lucy—”
But she kissed him square on the mouth, grinning. “Please? I love you.”
He sighed, caught my eye, shrugged as if to say, *Women, eh?* Then they vanished inside. Minutes later, out they came—Lucy beaming, the lad resigned. They disappeared into the crowd.
Something stirred in me. Maybe remembering my own youth, maybe seeing myself in that boy. A strange warmth flickered—something long buried. “Never bought Val a thing in twenty years,” I realised. “Too busy. Called it frivolous. But this lad… he’d go hungry just to see her smile. That’s love, isn’t it? And what about me? Did I ever love her? Felt like it before we wed. Then… life smothered it.”
Right then, I marched into that shop.
“Help you, sir?” the shopgirl chirped.
“That dress in the window.”
“Oh, classic vintage—pure silk! Your daughter will adore it.”
“It’s for my wife.”
She blinked, then grinned. “Lucky lady!”
The price made my stomach drop. “That much?”
“Designer piece,” she said, as if that explained everything.
I hesitated… then thought of Lucy’s face. Paid up.
Tom drove us home, bragging about his profits. “You do alright?”
“Mind your business,” I snapped.
Val wasn’t home yet. Fed the animals, mucked the pens, stewing all the while. Why did buying a gift feel like a crime? Drank two whiskeys before she walked in.
“How’d it go?” she asked, counting the money. “Less than I expected.”
“Spent the rest on… this.” I gestured at the bag.
She pulled out the dress. “For Natalie? It’s too big—”
“For you. For Women’s Day.”
Her face—stunned, then disbelieving. “Me?”
“Who else?”
She burst into tears, vanished into the bedroom. Ten minutes later, she reappeared, wiping her eyes. “Doesn’t fit. I’ve filled out.”
“But… it’s just like the one you wore when we courted.”
“Fool,” she whispered, smiling. “That was twenty years ago.”
“Saw the flowers, remembered you—skinny thing under the stars, like someone scattered pearls across the sky.”
We talked till dusk. Natalie barged in, flipped the light. Saw the dress. “Blimey! Who’s this for?”
Val winked. “You, love. Your dad’s gift.”
Natalie squealed, kissed my cheek, pranced about in it. “Off to show Sarah!” She was gone before we blinked.
The little ones got sweets. That night, for the first time in years, Val looked at me like she used to.
This morning, she woke me with a hand in my hair. “Breakfast’s ready.” That look—clear, tender—nearly drowned me.
“Morning already? Happy Women’s Day, then.”
“You gave it to me yesterday.”
I flushed. “Ach, it’s nothing.”
But it wasn’t. For the first time in years, we ate breakfast not just as husband and wife, but as we once were. May Heaven grant us more days like this.
