THE HANDKERCHIEF
“Greg’s snoring again!” thought Veronica irritably. She pushed her husband’s arm off her and turned onto her other side. Glancing at her phone, she noted it was past one in the morning.
“Great, now I won’t sleep at all, and I’ve got work tomorrow,” she grumbled to herself. “I’ll be nodding off all day. At least I don’t have to wake up early—my shift starts in the afternoon, but still. I’m not twenty anymore, when I could dance all night and wake up fresh as a daisy. Back then, coming home from moonlit dates, I’d lie awake replaying every word Greg and I had shared—though, funny enough, I’d only remember a few lines and just grin like a fool, giddy and happy. His face would flicker through my mind like scenes from a film—so close, so familiar. Those calm, kind grey eyes, so warm, so honest…”
Meanwhile, Greg let out another roar of a snore, undisturbed, still deep in sleep.
“What am I supposed to do? Maybe we should sleep in separate rooms,” Veronica mused.
For lack of anything better to do, she began dredging up old grievances and inventing new ones. It felt like she had enough complaints to fill a freight train and still have some left over for a supermarket trolley. What was driving her tonight? Resentment? Frustration? Disappointment? Who could say?
“The kids are all grown up. Now it’s just the two of us. Everything *should* be fine, but something’s off. What is it?” Worrying thoughts drilled into her mind like a blunt screwdriver, leaving holes no broom could sweep clean.
In the dark, she studied her sleeping husband. He breathed softly, unaware of her scrutiny—her silent tally of his flaws, multiplying them in her mind, forgetting to divide by zero. Not that it mattered; old school lessons whispered that division by zero was impossible. But it was always easier to spot flaws in others, wasn’t it?
“Greg’s gone completely grey. And he’s put on weight. His forehead’s lined like a road map—betraying every hardship, illness, and worry we’ve weathered together. He used to be so handsome.”
“He doesn’t light up when I come home anymore. Before, he’d meet me in the hallway, take my coat, kiss me, never even asking how my day was. Now? He slurps his tea, leaves his dirty laundry hidden, and when I wash his clothes anyway, he grumbles, ‘I haven’t even broken in these shirts yet!'”
“And God, the arguments we’ve had—the rough patches, the makeups. And his family! They never thought I was good enough for him. At our wedding, they hugged *him*, gave *him* flowers, acted like I wasn’t even there. They’d count my shoes and call me frivolous, when in truth, I worked hard and owned barely anything beyond essentials. My best friend made my clothes from magazine patterns! And Greg? He just said, ‘Ignore them, love. They’re just jealous.'”
Then came the worst memory.
“Our daughter, Emily, got sick—really sick. I took her to every hospital until they finally made a diagnosis. We had to travel to London for tests. I was terrified, barely sleeping, waiting for the worst news. And Greg? He seemed so *calm*. He never said a word, never hugged me, never once told me, ‘It’ll be alright.'”
“When it was finally over, we cried in each other’s arms, apologising, forgiving… But for a while, I truly thought we’d lost each other.”
Then, against her will, a smile flickered.
“But oh, how he used to dote on me! Remember how we met? I was wandering some unfamiliar street, bawling my eyes out. Didn’t want to go home. The sky cried with me—I had no umbrella, was soaked to the bone, my dress clinging to my legs. My heart was breaking.”
“I was at uni. Exam season. The girls had pooled money to buy gifts for professors—five pounds each. I didn’t have it. Mum refused, said I should focus on studying instead of sucking up. I *had* studied! My scholarship went straight to her, and she gave me a pound for three days’ meals—not a penny more. ‘Why would you need more? You live at home,’ she’d say. They’d taught me to scrimp, and I wasn’t angry—just desperate.”
“So there I was, crying in the rain, two pounds and thirty-five pence in my pocket. Thirty-five pence—I’d skipped lunch to save it. Nan couldn’t help until her pension came in. I had no one to borrow from.”
“Then, suddenly, an umbrella appeared over my head—black, wooden handle, something fancy.”
“‘Miss, what are you doing out alone at this hour?’ a man’s voice asked. ‘You’ll catch your death.’”
“‘Mind your own business!’ I snapped.”
“‘Let me at least offer you a handkerchief,’ he said gently. ‘It’s clean.’”
“He pulled it from his pocket—crisp white, navy checks. I still have it. It smelled faintly of cologne. Maybe that’s what won me over?”
“I washed it, kept it like a relic. Funny, how did he even know I was crying? The rain was torrential—you couldn’t tell tears from downpour.”
“‘I felt it,’ Greg told me later. ‘How could I leave you there? I’d never forgive myself.’”
“He took me to a café, bought me tea, coaxed the story out of me. Me, usually so guarded! And before I left, he pressed five pounds into my hand. ‘Take it,’ he said. ‘Money’s replaceable. Your smile isn’t.’”
“A week later, Nan gave me the money. I tried to repay Greg in the park, beaming like a new penny. He refused, offended. ‘A real man,’ he said, ‘wants to be needed. Thank *you* for letting me help.’”
Dawn crept through the curtains. Veronica lay there, sleepless, tracing their life together—the highs, the lows, but never once had Greg left her to face trouble alone. They’d buried loved ones, clung to each other like frightened children. Now their kids were married, and here they were—just the two of them, fretting like empty-nesters.
“What am I even complaining about?” she scolded herself. “I’ve got wrinkles and creaky joints too! So he snores—ask him to roll over!”
Just then, Greg turned, still asleep, and pulled her close, kissing the back of her head. Warmth rushed through her.
Wasn’t this all a woman truly wanted? To be loved, cherished—her troubles carried without a word of complaint? To have her tears dried with his handkerchief, to be cradled like a child and called his ‘little girl,’ even now?
Veronica woke at ten and shuffled to the kitchen.
“Up at last, sleepyhead?” Greg kissed her. “You woke *me* early—around six. Purring like Oscar on my arm.”
“You mean I was *snoring*?” she gasped.
“Well… let’s say you were breathing emphatically. You didn’t know?”
She shook her head.
Funny, how quick we are to fault others, blind to our own flaws. Maybe we should study our own reflections first.
And as for the rest? Every problem can be weathered—under one umbrella.
