Vera woke feeling unsteady. Snow fell heavily beyond the window. She was glad she’d gone to the shops yesterday—today, trudging through drifts would have been impossible with her aching legs. Her blood pressure had risen again, too. She took a pill, lay on the sofa, and shut her eyes.
*Why am I lying here? I should be making soup.* But standing felt impossible.
It had become tradition—her son, Thomas, and his wife came for lunch on New Year’s Day. Years ago, when Thomas was small, he’d bring their grandson too. He’d always ask the moment he stepped inside, *Mum, are you making soup? Salads get dull.* Vera told herself she’d rest a little longer, then get up and cook. There was time. She listened to her own breathing. Her head felt lighter now.
She opened her eyes and gazed at the portrait of her husband on the wall. She’d hung it there deliberately—the last thing she saw at night, the first in the morning. Seven years without him, and still, she hadn’t adjusted. She spoke to him often, staring at the photograph as if he might answer.
*It’s hard without you, Albert,* she said aloud.
*Remember that birthday when you came home empty-handed? You’d hidden the flowers under your coat on the rack—took ages hanging it up just so I’d come ask why you were dawdling.*
*You told me you’d lost your wages. Said someone nicked your wallet while you were picking out my gift. How cross I was! I knew you were up to something, knew your wretched sense of humour, and still, I fell for it.*
*And you always had to see a joke through, didn’t you? I was already figuring how we’d manage a month with no money.*
*Then Thomas and his wife arrived, your mate Nigel and his, and my friend Sarah. We sat, poured the wine, you gave a toast—then handed me that little box with gold earrings inside. My fiftieth birthday. I nearly threw the box at you, I was so furious. And you just laughed, thrilled you’d tricked me again.* Vera glared at the portrait.
*And that time you dropped the keys in the snow? How long we searched, neighbours and all, only for you to plant them where I’d find them. Never once admitted it—too embarrassed in front of the others, were you? Wouldn’t have understood. You played those tricks on the kids, too…* Her silent conversation with Albert spun on.
From the portrait, he listened, solemn for once. Rare, that—he usually grinned, sly as a fox. Vera sighed and sat upright. The ache in her head had dulled.
She went to the kitchen and began the soup. Every movement sent pain through her knees. As she stirred, memories rose like steam…
***
A warm August day. Young Vera sat before the mirror in her white wedding dress. Her friend Sarah styled her hair—she’d been training in the city as a hairdresser. Vera couldn’t keep still, smiling one moment, lost in thought the next.
The groom would arrive soon, yet she still wasn’t sure she’d done the right thing, listening to her mother.
*Martin’s family’s steady, his farm’s thriving, and he’s a hard worker. Who else around here would you marry? City lads have their pick already,* her mother had insisted.
So Vera agreed. Twenty years old—time to settle. Sarah praised the dress, praised Martin, while tears pricked Vera’s eyes. Every sound outside made her tense—was that the car? Relief flooded her each time one passed by.
Then—an engine cut out beneath the window. A door slammed. Vera flinched. Her heart fluttered like a trapped bird.
Sarah rushed out to greet the groom, to barter for the bride. Her mother stood on the step…
And suddenly, Vera wasn’t thinking of what a bride should. She remembered yesterday, her mother sending her to the shop, where she’d met Albert. After the army, he hadn’t returned to the village—gone straight to work in the city. She hadn’t seen him in years.
He’d filled out. Not classically handsome, but striking, polished now. Vera had flushed under his stare, dropped her gaze.
*Too late, lad. No use gawping. She’s not for you—marrying tomorrow,* the shopkeeper, Auntie Marg, had said.
*We’ll see about that,* Albert smirked, eyes still fixed on Vera.
She barely recalled what she’d bought. She fled outside, gasping for air. And ever since, she hadn’t shaken the memory of his gaze.
Vera strained to listen. Why were they haggling so long over the token? Then—the door swung open. Not Martin stepped through, but Albert.
Vera shot up, heart hammering. Her mother grabbed Albert’s sleeve, trying to block him. Sarah just watched, stunned. Albert wrenched free, strode to Vera.
*I can’t live without you. Come with me. Now.*
She couldn’t speak. He swept her into his arms, carried her out. Her mother and friend barely leapt aside in time. Vera clung to his neck, rested her head on his shoulder—as if this was always meant to be.
That was how Albert stole her from the altar. The village talked for months. Even Martin turned up later, drunk, swaying on his feet. Stared at them, then walked away.
Albert confessed later he’d confronted him.
*I won’t let you two be happy. I’ll take her back. Better kill me now.*
Martin was no match for Albert. He backed down.
They married and left for the city at once. Lived in a tiny flat at first, then got a proper house when Albert’s factory provided one. Slept on a mattress on the floor. And they were happy! Two children—a daughter married abroad, Thomas here, their grandson nearly finished university. Never once did Vera regret running off with Albert. They’d loved fiercely.
And always, he played those jokes. That was him. Vera never got used to it—always fell for the ruse.
Even when his heart first failed him, he’d laughed, said he was teasing so she’d fuss. She’d seen the pain, wept, held him. The ambulance took too long. Snow like this, roads choked. Never made it to hospital…
***
Vera sighed, swallowed the rising tears, turned off the hob. Why this rush of memories? Her head throbbed anew, little hammers in her temples. She returned to the sofa, lay down.
*Seventh New Year without you, Albert. Thomas comes tomorrow with his wife. He’s got his own life now. So like you—same reckless charm.*
*Remember when we all celebrated together?* Tears welled again, and for a moment, Albert’s portrait seemed to shift.
*Don’t cry, Vera-love.*
She startled. Pain roared back in her skull. She rubbed her eyes. No—Albert’s face was still. Just her mind.
*Hearing things now? Going mad, am I?*
*Still laughing at me? Even there, you can’t rest?* She spoke without malice. *How is it, Albert? Do you miss us? Your legs bother you? Mine ache so—no strength left.*
*We’re all young here, Vera-love. Nothing hurts.* His voice, clear in her mind.
*This is madness.* She sat up.
*Yes, Vera-love. It’s lovely here. Only—I’m tired without you.*
*Show yourself. Or can’t you? Just know how to scare me.* She tried to stand. *I’ll take a pill. Before I—* The room swayed. An iron band squeezed her skull. Darkness crept in. She collapsed back, rolled to her side—and in fading consciousness, saw Albert. Young, as on that August day.
*Hold on, darling. It’ll pass soon.* His voice through the ringing. *Come. It’s time.* He reached for her.
She wanted to ask where, to say she couldn’t move—but only a groan escaped.
Then—the pain vanished. Vera rose effortlessly, took his hand. The flat, the snow outside—gone. Warm light enveloped them, piercing her with peace and joy. Sweetness, a faint fear—just like when he’d carried her to the car…
Next day, Thomas and his wife arrived. Knocked, waited, fetched the spare key…
Vera lay on the sofa, serene as if asleep. On the stove, a full pot of soup.
After the funeral, Thomas hung her portrait beside Albert’s. In it, she smiled—as if she’d finally found what she’d been seeking.
