William scarcely recognised his own wife; he couldnt fathom what was happening to her. For years, Edith had always kept the house tidy, cooked their meals, ironed their clothes, but of late, shed seemingly abandoned all these routines. With cautious concern, William asked her what was wrong, to which Edith replied, Ive spent so many years looking after you lot. Surely I deserve a bit of respite!
William, troubled, began to suspect perhaps Edith had found someone else, and he made up his mind to check her belongings. One day, as he rifled through Ediths handbag, Williams eyes fell upon a curious letter.
I cannot forget now how strange those days were. Wed been married for seventeen years, and never before had I seen such changes in Edith. She had always been gentle and understanding, never quarrelsome nor secretiveand that was why, all those years ago, I chose her. Every breakfast she cooked us porridge or a cheese omelette, and as soon as she returned from work, shed set about preparing supper. Every Sunday shed iron precisely fifteen shirtsone for each day for me and our two boys, though the boys often made do with just two or three. Getting them to be as meticulous as I was hadnt been easy.
Now, for the second week running, our breakfasts consisted of cereal or cold sandwiches, and Edith coolly told us to help ourselves. For dinner, if luck was on our side, there might be some leftover stew; if not, thered be a note on the table: Ill be back after nine, put the kettle on for some dumplings.
At first, I put it down to the teachers conference at Ediths college, but even after it ended, life didnt return to its usual rhythm.
One evening, I asked, as casually as I could, Is everything all right, Edith?
She responded, Cant I have a life of my own? Ive spent years waiting on you three. Dont I deserve some rest?
Of course, I replied, if thats what you want.
I wanted to ask how long this rest would last, but I didnt dare. Week after week passed on like this: Edith was off at the pictures, the theatre, or some far-flung exhibition, and I couldnt ignore how her wardrobe now included dresses far brighter, far more daring than before. In the mornings, she sat before her mirror painting her lashes and lips instead of frying me an egg. Dark suspicions began to creep into my mindhad Edith really met someone new?
Ashamed of myself yet tormented by worry, I began to monitor her: checking her phone, peering at her bank statements, even rummaging through her handbag. Thats when, hidden in an inner pocket, I found the lettermuch handled, edges worn, words faded. It was a love letter, of that much I was sure, and penned by someone deeply dear. Edith, how I long for you. I cant express how much I ache in the wait for our reunion. I hear your voice everywhere, search for the joy in your smile
Reading it was agony. From its battered state, this love affair must have endured some timewhich pained me all the more. If it were some fleeting infatuation with a visiting colleague, perhaps Id understand. But this Had all our years as man and wife been nothing but a lie?
For three days I told no one, only sank deeper into resentment and doubt. I kept recalling the times Id turned away from temptation, the chances Id had to stray but never did. Then, after those three days, I couldnt hold it in.
I know everything, I said, voice low.
Everything? What are you going on about? Edith replied, a touch of genuine surprise in her tone. But I knew what Id read.
Youre seeing someone else, I stated, more than asked.
At this, Edith laughed outright. What utter nonsense, William. Surely youre not serious?
Her laughter didnt comfort me. If shed confessed or wept, Id have felt somethingrelief, perhapsbut not this confusion.
I read his letter! I blurted out. What do you take me for? No one writes words like, I cant wait for the day were together again, our souls destined to walk side by side until the ends of the earth I nearly spat the words.
But Edith only burst into another fit of laughter, which irritated me no end. Are you actually serious? she said.
My breath came heavy. Did you go through my bag? she asked.
Yes.
And read the letter?
Yes.
And dont you recall that you wrote it?
That stopped me. What?
Edith sighed and pulled down the old biscuit tin from the top shelf, rummaging through it until she found a particular envelope. She handed it to me. You wrote it to me! Dont you remember, when you were on that work trip, and I was at home looking after the boys? Look at the address.
I stared at the envelope. It was my name. My handwritingthough scrawled, because, as it dawned on me, that year Id injured my right hand on a job site and written everything with my left for weeks. Could I really have forgotten?
And why, I asked sullenly, do you still carry this letter around?
The counsellor suggested it, Edith replied calmly.
Counsellor?
Yes, William. Im worn out. My whole life has been about looking after you three. Since the boys were born, Ive barely had a moment to myself. And honestly, I dont even recall the last time you showered me with love. You bring me flowers only on Mothers Day, and as for words of affection well, they seem a distant echo. But Im still a woman, not so very old yet. Truth be told, Ive sometimes thought about leaving. But we have a good family, and I value that. So I went to see a counsellor. Shes given me advice, and I follow it. For the family.
Her confession floored me. Divorcewas she really thinking of leaving?
And do her tips help? I asked tentatively.
Sometimes, Edith smiled, faintly mischievous.
And the old letters?
To remind me of the love we once shared, she replied.
I nodded. I had to gather my thoughts, so I stood and wandered onto the balcony. We never talked about it again.
***
The next morning, when Edith awoke, she was greeted by an unusual bustle in the house and the scent of vanilla in the air. She was quite at a loss until she entered the kitchen.
There, her elder son was at the stove, frying an omelette; the younger was setting out plates of fresh scones and cheese. On the table, a vase bloomed with her favourite daffodils.
Whats all this? Edith asked in astonishment.
Morning, Mum, the younger lad grinned. Would you like tea or coffee?
Edith could scarcely believe her senses. Coffee, she replied, blinking away tears.
Omelette or scones, then?
Scones, please
William was nowhere to be seen, but she knew in her heart whod orchestrated this mornings surprise. When shed just begun her first scone, William entered, extending a folded sheet of paper.
Good morning, dearest, he said.
And this? she asked, with a note of hope.
A new letter, William smiled, to help us remember.
Edith smiled back, and from that moment, life seemed right again. Not every morning brought a feast like thatmiracles are rare in this world. But sometimes, they did. And now, when Edith went to the cinema, it was often with William by her side, gladly keeping her company. Their marriage was saved.
