Keith Blackburn had never once bought his wife a present in all their twenty blissful years of marriage. Not that he’d meant to be stingy—it just somehow never came up. He and Valerie had married in a whirlwind, barely a month after meeting.
Their courtship had been swift and unceremonious, marked less by grand gestures and more by practicality. He’d whistle under her window in the sleepy village where she lived, and she’d dart out to join him on the wooden bench by the gate. There they’d sit till midnight, chatting idly under the stars. The first time he’d kissed her? Right after proposing. The wedding was a modest affair, and then life swept them up in its relentless tide—raising livestock, tending the garden, raising children. Nappies, sleepless nights, childhood sniffles. Who had time for presents? Holidays came and went with little fanfare, marked by nothing more than a decent roast and a pint or two. Their life was simple, steady, and utterly predictable.
Then, one brisk March morning, Keith set off with his neighbour Nigel to sell potatoes and bacon at the local market. He’d rummaged through his root cellar, sorted the spares, and figured he might as well turn a profit. The bacon too—why let it sit when a fresh batch was due soon? The market was lively, the air crisp with the promise of spring. To his surprise, everything sold in a flash—the bacon vanished like free samples, and the potatoes were snatched up as if they were gold. “Not half bad,” Keith thought, pocketing the cash. “Val’ll be chuffed.”
After stashing the empty sacks in Nigel’s truck, Keith wandered through town. Val had given him a short shopping list—nothing fancy. But first, out of habit, he ducked into the local pub for a quick celebratory pint. Not that he was much of a drinker, mind. But he held a firm superstition that failing to toast good fortune would jinx the next sale. A couple of ales later, warm and cheerful, he strolled down the bustling high street, taking in the shop windows and the whirl of shoppers. Then, his gaze snagged on a sight: a young couple, barely out of their teens, stood transfixed before a shop display.
The girl—bright-eyed and rosy-cheeked—was staring at a dress in the window. “Sophie, come on,” the lad sighed. “It’s just a bit of fabric.”
“Look at it, Jamie! It’s perfect—right up my street!”
“It’s a rip-off.”
“You berk, this is vintage! Retro! Get it for me for Mother’s Day, yeah?”
“Soph, we’re skint as it is. Buy that, and we’re on beans for a month.”
“We’ll manage! We’ve been married a year, and you’ve not once got me a proper gift—not even at Christmas!”
“Soph, for crying out loud—”
Before he could finish, she smacked a loud kiss on his cheek and dragged him into the shop. The lad shot Keith a weary glance—chalk it up to the universal plight of husbands everywhere. Minutes later, they reappeared, Sophie giggling, clutching her prize, and Jamie looking equal parts exasperated and smitten.
Something flickered in Keith’s chest. Was it nostalgia? Or just the odd realisation that he’d never once bought Val anything? Not even in their courting days. He’d always called it frivolous. But here was Jamie, willing to live on toasties just to see his wife’s face light up. Did Keith even love Val anymore? Back then, he’d thought so. But love had quietly dissolved into routine—days bled into years with nothing to show for it but chores.
The stolen glimpse of someone else’s happiness burned so sharply that, before he knew it, Keith marched into the shop.
A shop assistant bounced over. “Can I help you?”
“Aye. That dress in the window—I’ll take it.”
“Oh, brilliant choice! Vintage-inspired, pure silk. Your daughter will adore it.”
“It’s for the missus,” Keith grunted.
“How lovely!” she chirped, wrapping it up.
When she named the price, Keith balked. “Bloody hell, for a frock?”
“It’s designer, sir. Very sought-after.”
He hesitated. Then Sophie’s radiant face flashed in his mind. With a decisive nod, he paid up.
The ride home was quiet. Nigel prattled about his profits while Keith sat gripping the bag, his gut twisting. Why did buying a gift feel like a guilty secret?
Back home, Val was still out. He fed the livestock, mucked out the pens, and tried to shake off the unease. Had he really done right? Or was it just daft sentimentality?
By the time Val trudged in, he’d poured himself a stiff drink. “You all right?” she asked, eyeing him.
“Fine. Money’s there.”
She counted it. “Bit short, innit?”
“Er—well, the rest’s in that bag.”
She pulled out the dress. “Who’s this for, then? Lucy? Bit pricey for nowt.”
“It’s for you,” he mumbled. “Mother’s Day.”
Her brow furrowed. “Me?” Then, softer, “Really?”
“Might as well be.”
Val’s eyes welled up. She dashed off, returning minutes later, flustered. “Doesn’t fit. Too snug.”
“Blimey, I remember you in one just like it when we’d sit on that bench.”
“You daft sod,” she sniffed. “That was decades ago.”
“Funny thing—seeing those flowers brought it all back. You, all skinny, next to me under the stars.”
She smiled softly. “Good times.”
They lingered till dusk, lost in memory, until their eldest, Lucy, barged in. “Why’re you sat in the dark?” She flicked the light on, spotted the dress, and gasped. “Blimey! Who’s this for?”
Val exchanged a glance with Keith. “For you, love. Dad got it.”
Lucy shrieked, planted a kiss on Keith’s cheek, and vanished to try it on. When she reappeared, twirling, it fit like a glove. “Off to show Becky!” she cried, vanishing again.
Keith had brought sweets for the younger ones. That night, as they settled into bed, Val turned to him with a look so tender it near knocked the wind out of him.
“Happy Mother’s Day,” he mumbled next morning.
“You gave it to me yesterday,” she said, stroking his hair. “Now come eat.”
Breakfast was quiet, warm, and oddly perfect. Here’s hoping for many more.
