Edward barely recognised his wife. For years, Margaret had kept their home in immaculate ordercleaning, cooking, ironingand now she had abruptly stopped. He noticed how she no longer went about her daily routines. Curious, Edward asked her gently what was wrong, but Margaret replied, Ive been looking after you all for so many years. Dont you think I deserve a little rest?
Edward began to suspect that perhaps there was someone else in her life. He found himself checking Margarets belongings, and one day, while rummaging through her handbag, he came across a peculiar letter.
I remember it as though it were yesterday. Wed been married for seventeen years, and not once had Margaret wavered in her kindness or devotion. She made porridge or eggs every morning, came straight home from work to cook the family dinner, and every Sunday, she ironed exactly fifteen shirtsone for each day for me and our two sons. Granted, the boys rarely needed as many, but she tried to instil the same fastidiousness in them as I had.
But then, for two weeks running, breakfast was nothing more than cereal or a sandwich, and we were encouraged to make it ourselves. Dinner, if there was any, was often yesterdays leftovers, sometimes accompanied by a note on the scullery table: Will be back after nine, put the kettle on for some dumplings.
At first, I chalked it up to the conference Margarets college was hosting, but when the conference ended and things didnt return to normal, worry crept in.
I tried to broach the subject carefully, but Margaret merely said, Cant I have a life of my own? Ive spent years waiting on you lot; can I not get a little peace?
Of course you can, its only right, I replied, though I dared not ask how long a little might last.
Time passed, and Margaret seemed continually absent: shed be off to the cinema, to the theatre, or to see an exhibition. There was something that particularly unsettled meher wardrobe had turned unconventional, with bold dresses, and instead of preparing breakfast, she was applying makeup in the mornings. Troubling suspicions gnawed at mesurely she wasnt seeing someone else?
The thought embarrassed me, but my unease grew so persistent I couldnt help myself: I began to follow her, check her mobile and bank statements, and even rummage through her handbag. That was when I found the letter. It was tucked deep in an inner pocket, worn and rather faded, clearly read many times. There was no doubting its naturea love letter, intimate, confessional. Margaret, how I miss you, words fail to express how difficult these days are whilst I await our next meeting. Everywhere I hear your voice, search with longing for your smile and cannot find it
It was painful to read. From its battered state, this secret had been carrying on for some time. If it had been a brief flirtation with a passing colleague, I might have found it in myself to accept, but this This was different. Had our entire marriage been a deception?
I held my tongue for three days, stewing over all the temptations I had resisted, the fidelity Id maintained. On the third day, I broke.
I know everything, I said, barely above a whisper.
Margaret looked up, noticeably unruffled, perhaps a little puzzled. Know what, exactly?
With all the certainty built by suspicion, I pressed on. Youre seeing someone, arent you?
She gave a short laugh. What utter nonsense, Edward. Honestly, I do hope youre joking.
If she had confessed, perhaps even wept, I might have found some comfort. But her amusement felt like a slap.
Ive read his letter! I declared. You cant deny those are love lettersI cant wait until we are together again, our souls destined to walk alongside one another until the end of time Honestly! I snapped.
Suddenly, Margaret laughed again, which only irritated me.
Are you serious? she asked.
And you?
We glared at each other across the kitchen, tension mounting.
So, youve been searching through my handbag, then?
Yes.
And you read the letter?
I did.
And you dont remember writing it yourself?
I stared at her. What? Of course not. The notion seemed absurd.
Margaret sighed, fetched a kitchen stool, and reached up to the top shelf, returning with a battered box. She rummaged through it, then handed me an envelope.
Here you are, she said. Youd hurt your hand, remember? You wrote with your left when you were away in Leeds on that long job.
I looked at the return addressmy own, in a strange, awkward hand. It began to come back to me: the injury on site, my crude penmanship, those long, lonely evenings away from home. Could it really be?
And why do you still carry it around? I muttered, still reeling.
The counsellor suggested it, Margaret said serenely.
A counsellor?
Yes, Edward. Ive grown tired. Ive spent my life tending to you and the boys. Since our youngest, Simon, was born, Ive had no life of my own. Sometimes I dont even hear a thank you. Flowers come only on Mothers Day and I cant recall the last time you told me you loved me. But I am still a woman; I still have needs. If Im honest, I have thought about leaving. But we have a good family, and I value that, so I sought help. The counsellor gives me advice, and I follow it.
Her confession stunned me. Leave? Did she truly want to leave me?
Does it help, her advice? I asked quietly.
Sometimes it does, she smiled.
And the letter?
It reminds me of the love we once shared.
I nodded, needing time to process. I stepped out onto the balcony, breathing in the evening air. We never spoke of it again.
***
The next morning, Margaret woke to a commotion and the wonderful scent of vanilla. She couldnt imagine what was happening until she entered the kitchen.
Our eldest son was at the stove making scrambled eggs. The younger was setting out scones and plates. A vase of her favourite flowers stood at the centre of the table.
Whats all this? she asked, bewildered.
Morning, Mum, the younger said sweetly. Would you like some tea or coffee?
Margaret could hardly believe her eyes or ears.
Coffee, please.
And would you like eggs or a scone?
Scone, thank you
I was nowhere to be seen, but Margaret suspected I was behind the surprise. As she took her first bite, I appeared, holding a crisp sheet of paper.
Morning, my love.
Whats this? she asked, a smile lurking.
A new letter, I said, grinning. Just to be absolutely certain it works this time.
Margaret smiled back. From then on, there was peace in our home. Breakfasts like that didnt happen every day, of courseno miracles, after all. But sometimes, they did. And now, Margaret rarely went to the cinema or gallery aloneI happily went with her. Our marriage, in the end, was saved.
