**The Price of a Stash: How Victor Almost Lost His Wife**
Rita stepped into the garden to hang out the laundry. It was a fine day, the sun warm as summer, everything drying in no time. Out of habit, she glanced over the fence into the neighbours’ yard. There, pacing frantically from corner to corner, was Victor, their neighbour. He was ducking under the porch, rifling through the shed, even checking beneath the bench.
“Victor, what on earth have you lost? Yesterday?” she teased with a smile.
But the man didn’t even turn, just waved a hand and disappeared inside. Rita shrugged and headed back, but before she could cross the threshold, the door burst open, and in rushed Maisie—Victor’s wife—her face streaked with tears.
“Maisie, love, what’s happened?” Rita hurried over, alarmed.
“How could he?” Maisie sobbed, barely holding herself together. “How could he even think such a thing?”
Rita patted her friend’s shoulder, bewildered. Their marriage had always been idyllic—no rows, no blame, just flower-filled gardens and the scent of fresh baking drifting from their window.
Victor and Maisie lived in a quaint cottage on the outskirts of York. The house looked like a postcard—bursting with blooms in summer, the paths neatly cleared in winter. Their daughter was married, their son Jack finishing college. Victor worked as an engineer; Maisie was a seamstress at the local factory. Neighbours Rita and Andy had been close with them for years, sharing holidays at the same table and lending a hand whenever needed.
Victor had one peculiar habit: he loved stashing money. He tucked it away in odd places—the shed, under flower beds, even beneath the floorboards of the summerhouse. Not to hide it, just for peace of mind. Then he’d forget where he’d put it and turn the place upside down.
Maisie knew. Early on, she’d scolded him, then gave up—some habits die hard. She never touched his money, even if she stumbled across it. Twenty-six years of marriage had taught her patience.
That morning, Rita spotted Victor again, tearing around the yard in search of his latest “treasure.” She laughed and called out, “Lost another stash, you silly sod?”
But half an hour later, Maisie stormed into her kitchen, eyes red and swollen. Rita sat her down, poured tea, and pushed a plate of biscuits her way.
“Can you believe it?” Maisie choked out. “He accused me of stealing his money! Said, *‘You found it, took it, and kept quiet!’* This is Victor—the man who always said I was his *‘heart’s keeper.’* And now I’m a thief? I’ve never once touched his bloody stashes, even when I’ve tripped over them!”
Rita gasped. Never had she imagined Victor capable of that. Maisie was gentle, kind—the sort of woman you’d sooner knock a church pew over than insult.
“Don’t take it to heart, love,” Rita soothed. “He’ll remember soon enough, find his stash, and be on his knees begging.”
“I don’t *want* apologies! My holiday starts next week—I’m off to Mum’s in the countryside. And I *won’t* be back! Let him live with his precious money!”
Meanwhile, Victor scoured the village—not just for his cash, but for his wife. He ducked into the shop where Maisie’s friend Tilly worked.
“Tilly, seen Maisie?”
“Nope. Lost the missus, have you? She’ll be back. She’s not one to walk out.”
On his way home, Victor bumped into his son. Jack was out with his girlfriend, Emily, who clutched a lavish bouquet of red roses.
“Emily, birthday, is it?” Victor asked, recalling Jack had asked for cash for a gift.
“Yep, nineteen! We’re off to the pub with friends tonight,” she beamed.
Victor forced a smile, but his gut twisted. He *hadn’t* given Jack the money—he was sure. So where’d the roses come from?
He called his son later. “Jack, where’d you get the money for Emily’s gift?”
“Dad, I found it yesterday—under that box on the veranda. Knew it was one of your stashes. Meant to tell you…”
Victor went quiet, torn between shame and relief. “Alright, son… Don’t upset Emily.”
Now—to find Maisie. And apologise.
He checked next door. Andy was fixing the gate, chuckling when he saw Victor. “You’ve really cocked up, mate. Maisie’s inside—Rita’s calming her down. Accusing your wife of theft? Lucky she’s not packed her bags yet.”
“I know…” Victor muttered. “Right, off to grovel. Oh, and the stash? Jack spent it on flowers for his girlfriend.”
“Good lad!” Rita called from the porch. “Now you’d better think how to make it up to Maisie!”
Victor dashed home, gathered every hidden envelope, and drove off. An hour later, he returned with a small black bag.
He approached Maisie. “Forgive me, love. I don’t know what I was thinking. Come home, please.”
Maisie eyed him warily, but the ice in her glare had softened.
“Not yet,” she muttered, though the tears had stopped.
“I got you this. Remember that necklace you fancied at the jeweller’s? I noticed.”
He held out a box. Maisie hesitated, then opened it—a delicate gold链 with a pendant shaped like her star sign.
“Oh, Victor…” she whispered, slipping it on at once.
“That’s more like it!” Rita clapped. “Gifts like that can forgive any stash!”
They laughed long into the evening, Rita setting the table right there in the garden. The tale of the “lost” stash became the talk of every neighbourly get-together for weeks.
As for Victor? He never made another secret stash. Too afraid of losing Maisie again. And how could he? She *was* his home.
*Lesson learnt: A man’s treasure isn’t in hidden envelopes—it’s the woman who puts up with his nonsense.*
