The Handkerchief
“Greg’s snoring again,” thought Victoria irritably. She pushed her husband’s arm away and turned onto her side. Glancing at her phone, she noted it was past two in the morning.
“I won’t sleep now, and I’ve got work tomorrow,” she fumed. “I’ll be nodding off all day.” Not that she had to rise early—her shift started in the afternoon—but still. She wasn’t twenty anymore, when she could dance all night and wake fresh as a daisy. Or recall those moonlit dates, coming home too giddy to sleep, replaying every word Greg had said, though now she remembered only fragments—just enough to make her smile foolishly. His face, so close and dear, flickered in her mind like an old film reel. Those kind grey eyes, clear as a summer sky…
Meanwhile, Greg let out another thunderous snort, undisturbed, breathing evenly beside her.
“What am I supposed to do? Sleep in separate rooms?” Victoria pondered.
With nothing better to do, she began tallying old grievances and inventing new ones. The list felt endless—enough to fill a freight train and a shopping trolley besides. What drove her? Resentment? Frustration? Disappointment? Who could say?
“The kids are grown. Just us left now. Everything’s fine, and yet… something’s wrong. But what?” The thought gnawed at her like a blunt drill, leaving holes no broom could sweep clean.
In the dark, she studied her sleeping husband. Oblivious, he dozed while she scrutinised his flaws, magnifying them, forgetting to divide by zero—though some long-buried school lesson whispered that was impossible. It’s easy to spot a speck in someone else’s eye, isn’t it?
“Greg’s gone completely grey. Put on weight, too. Wrinkles like rivers on a map carve his forehead, betraying age and hardship. He used to be so handsome.”
He didn’t greet her with the same joy anymore. No more rushing to the hallway to take her coat, kissing her without asking about her day. And the way he slurped his tea! He hid his dirty work clothes, and she’d sneak them into the wash at night, laying out fresh ones by morning—only for him to grumble, “I’ve not even broken these in yet!”
Yes, he’d hurt her before. They’d weathered storms, quarrelled, made up. His family had been worse—always treating her as unworthy. At their wedding, they’d hugged Greg, handed him flowers, while she stood ignored. They even counted her dresses and boots, calling her wasteful—though she’d always worked, owned little, and made do with thrift-store finds. Greg just waved it off: “Ignore them, love. It’s just envy.”
The worst memory? When their daughter, Emily, fell ill. Victoria had dragged her to every hospital before a diagnosis. Before the trip to London for tests, she’d barely slept, terrified. And Greg? Calm. Silent. She’d wanted him to hold her, say, “It’ll be alright.” But he hadn’t. They’d drifted.
Yet when the ordeal ended, they’d wept together, forgiving.
“And how he’d courted me!” She remembered meeting him—lost on a rainy street, sobbing. No umbrella, soaked to the bone. Her grief? Uni exams. The girls had pooled money for teacher gifts—£5 each. Her mum refused: “No bribes. Study harder.” Victoria’s scholarship barely covered lunch money.
Greg had appeared under a black umbrella. “Miss, why walk alone in the dark, crying?”
“It’s none of your business!” she’d snapped.
“I only wanted to offer my handkerchief,” he’d said gently. A clean white one, blue-checked, scented faintly of cologne. She’d kept it like a relic.
He’d guessed her tears despite the downpour. “I felt it,” he’d said later. “I couldn’t leave you.”
Over tea, she’d spilled her woes. At her doorstep, he pressed £5 into her hand. “Take it. Don’t cry over money.”
A week later, she repaid him, beaming. He’d refused, almost offended. “A man’s duty is to be needed. Thank you for letting me help.”
Dawn crept in. Victoria lay awake, reflecting. They’d had joys and sorrows—but never had Greg left her to face them alone. He shouldered burdens silently, never complaining.
They’d buried loved ones, clung together like frightened hamsters. Now, with the children married, they were alone—and she fretted over them needlessly.
“What am I fussing about? I ought to check my own wrinkles and creaky knees!”
Greg turned, still asleep, pulled her close, and kissed her head. A weight lifted.
How precious it was—to be loved, cared for, shielded from storms you’d made yourself. To have your tears dried, your fears hushed, and still be called “my little girl.”
Victoria woke at ten. Greg kissed her. “You were up early—purring like Whiskers on my arm.”
“You mean I was snoring?”
“Well… loudly breathing. Didn’t you know?”
“No,” she admitted softly.
Truly, we spy motes in others’ eyes while ignoring beams in our own. Best to first examine our own reflection.
And remember—most troubles can be weathered under a shared umbrella.
