One misty morning, Michael awoke with a jolt, a peculiar feeling tugging at himtomorrow was his wifes birthday. He rolled over in bed, ideas tumbling about what to give, because he believed wholeheartedly that he had the finest wife and mother in all of England. Their home in Winchester was always spotless, the roast dinners and Victoria sponges tasted heavenly, and the children wore their school uniforms neat and pressed.
His wife, Emily, never forgot him in her whirl of household magic, always trying to anticipate his wishes. Emily and Michael had four children, ranging in age from six to seventeen. Truly, her mothering was unparalleled. She had wondrous trusting relationships with each child, loved putting together family holidays in Dorset, made crafts for the nursery, joined all manner of parent committees, helped with homework, honoured the childrens friends, and chatted warmly with everyoneheart to heartall the while managing to tidy up six times as much as anyone else. She cooked for everyoneplenty and delicious.
Emily seemed perfectly content, and she would talk about her happiness often, never complaining of life, as was the English way. When the children were younger, Michael once asked Emily what birthday present she might desire. I hardly know, she laughed, though I do think I do: a day off! A whole day just for me, from morning til night to sleep, to read, to soak in the bathjust to be alone! Yet somehow, no one quite took that wish seriously. They chuckled and carried on, forgetting it altogether.
It was nearly impossible anywayfour young children, who would stay with them? A day spent with four children was no small jest. Emily herself was certain shed spoken absentmindedly. Michael gifted her a set of saucepans that year, and the wish melted away like fog.
Now, the children are mostly grown; her hands are less full. Emily starts to speak more often of wanting to see them grown, well-anchored, living independently. Yet for now, she still cares for them all. For this birthday, Michael gave Emily a lovely pair of gold earrings. She was delighted, put them on immediately, twirled before the mirror.
She set the table prettily, gathered the nearest and dearest, and the whole family celebrated with laughter and shepherd’s pie and Eton mess. At one oclock in the morning, Michael stirred from sleep, realising Emily still hadnt gone to bed. Shed first tucked in each child, then slipped to the kitchen to wash up the dinner plates. She looked so weary, so drained, in the hush of moonlight.
When Emily woke the next morning, alone in a silent house, a strange feeling swept over her. The quiet clung to the roomsso unfamiliar. In the kitchen, she noticed a note on the table. Michael had written, Gone to visit Mum in the village. Didnt want to wake you. Back tomorrowmake sure you have a proper rest. Then, as if from nowhere, the doorbell rangan enormous bouquet of garden roses arrived, passed to Emily by a courier shrouded in mistflowers for her, alone in the quiet, the dreamlike calm washing over her.
