**Twenty Years Without a Gift: A Quiet Life Together**
Henry Whitaker had never bought his wife a present, though theyd shared twenty years of peaceful marriage. It wasnt that he was stingythe right moment just never came. With Eleanor, things had moved quickly: a month after they met, they were married.
Their courtship hadnt involved gifts, either. Hed visit her in the small village where she lived, whistling under her window. Shed rush out, and theyd settle on the bench by the gate, talking little until midnight.
Their first kiss had been stolen on the day of their engagement. Then came the wedding, the daily grind, the worries. Henry proved a shrewd businessman, turning his pig farm into a success. Eleanor worked just as hard, her vegetable garden the envy of the neighbours. Then children arrivednappies, school uniforms, childhood illnesses. Gifts? No time to think of them. Holidays were marked with a good meal, nothing more. Life rolled on, quiet and steady.
One day, Henry went to the market with his neighbour to sell potatoes and bacon, just before Mothers Day. Hed emptied his cellar, sorted the spuds, and decided to offload the extra. As for the bacon, best to sell it now before slaughtering the next pig. The morning was crisp, a hint of spring in the air. To his surprise, everything sold like hotcakes. The bacon vanished in a blink, the potatoes snapped up like sweets. *Not bad*, Henry thought, pleased. *Eleanor will be chuffed.*
He stowed the sacks in his neighbours van and set off to run errands. Eleanor had given him a short list. Out of habit, he stopped at the local pub to toast his good fortune. He wasnt much of a drinker, but he believed skipping a celebratory pint would jinx future sales. After a quick half of bitter, he wandered down the high street, watching the crowds. Then, quite by accident, he stumbled upon an unexpected scene.
Outside a shop, a young couple admired a dress in the window. The girl, fresh as a daisy, gushed:
*”Come on, Sophie, we cant stand here all day!”*
*”Look, James, its perfect! It would suit me so well.”*
*”Its just a bit of fabric.”*
*”Dont be daft! Its retro chicthe latest trend! Buy it for me for Mothers Day, yeah?”*
*”Sophie, were skint. If I get this, its baked beans till payday.”*
*”Well manage, love! I want it so badly. Weve been married a year, and youve never bought me a thingnot even at Christmas!”*
*”Youre impossible,”* James sighed.
*”I love you,”* she whispered, kissing him before dragging him inside.
Catching Henrys eye, the lad shrugged with a knowing grin, as if to say, *”Women, eh?”* Soon after, they emerged, Sophie clutching the precious bag, laughing. Henry lingered by the window. The dress was prettysimple, floral, like the one Eleanor wore when they first met. A long-buried feeling stirred. Was it nostalgia? Or regret for the years lost to routine? A sudden thought struck him: *Ive never given Eleanor anything. Too busy. Thought it unnecessary. But this lad would go without to make his wife happy. Out of love. And do I love Eleanor? I thought so once. Then life swallowed us whole. A life of work, without memories Blimey.*
That stolen joy ached in his chest. He wanted to feel it too.
Stepping inside, he was greeted by a shopgirl.
*”Can I help you, sir?”*
*”Aye. Ill take that dress in the window.”*
*”Oh, excellent choice! Pure silk, vintage style. Your daughter will adore it.”*
*”Not for my daughter. For my wife,”* he grunted.
*”How lovely!”* she chirped, wrapping it up.
*”How much?”*
When she named the price, Henry nearly choked. A small fortune.
*”Why so steep?”* he grumbled.
*”Its designer, sir,”* she explained patiently.
He hesitated. Then Sophies radiant face flashed in his mind.
*”Ill take it.”*
He counted out the notes and left, oddly proud. His neighbour was waiting.
*”Doing all right?”* the man asked on the drive home.
*”Whats it to you?”* Henry snapped.
*”Blimey, no need for that,”* the neighbour muttered, taken aback.
Back at the farm, Eleanor wasnt home yet. Henry fed the pigs, mucked out the sty. But despite the busywork, unease gnawed at him. Why? He shrugged it off, poured himself a whisky. Then another.
The door banged open. Eleanor walked in, her usual stern expression in place.
*”Youre back. Howd it go?”*
*”Fine. Heres the money.”*
She counted the notes.
*”Theres less than usual. Bad sales?”*
*”No, the rest is well, its here.”* He handed her the bag.
She pulled out the dress, suspicious.
*”Whos this for? Lucy? Its too big for her. Wasting our hard-earned”*
*”Its for you,”* he mumbled. *”For Mothers Day.”*
Silence.
*”For me?”* Her voice wavered. *”Really?”*
*”Course it is!”* he said, relieved she wasnt cross. *”Who else?”*
Eleanor burst into tears and fled to the bedroom. She returned minutes later, eyes red.
*”It doesnt fit. Im not the same size.”*
*”What? But you wore one like it when we sat on that bench”*
*”Oh, Henry,”* she laughed shakily. *”That was twenty years ago. Things change.”*
He met her gaze.
*”Seeing those flowers I remembered us. Maybe the real gift isnt the dress. Maybe its just remembering.”*
**Lesson learned:** Time slips away too easily. Sometimes, the simplest actslike rememberingmean the most.
