Simon Petrak had never once bought his wife a gift in all their twenty years of marriage. It just never seemed necessary. He and Val had married quickly, just a month after they first met.
Their courtship had been swift, with no presents involved. He’d ride over to the village where Val lived, whistle outside her window, and she’d rush out to meet him. They’d sit together on the bench by the gate until midnight, barely exchanging a word.
He didn’t kiss her until after he’d proposed. The wedding passed, and life settled into its usual routines—work, chores, endless little worries. Simon became a dependable man, raising livestock in plenty. Val, too, proved diligent, tending a garden that made the neighbours envious. Then came children—nappies, tiny vests, childhood illnesses. Who had time for gifts? There was barely a moment to rest. Holidays came and went without fuss, marked only by simple meals at the table. Their life was unremarkable, weighed down by daily toil, but steady and quiet.
One day, Simon went with his neighbour to the market to sell potatoes and bacon—just before the eighth of March. He’d recently checked the cellar, sorted the potatoes, and decided to sell the extra. Why let the bacon sit, anyway? They’d be slaughtering the pig soon, and fresh meat would come. So there Simon stood at the market. A nice crisp chill hung in the air, not too harsh, with a hint of spring. To his surprise, he sold out quickly. The bacon went first, the potatoes soon after—as if they were some rare delicacy. “Good money today,” he thought, pleased. “Val’ll be happy.”
He packed the empty sacks into his neighbour’s car, then set off through the shops. Val had asked him to pick up a few small things. First, out of habit, he stopped at the corner pub for a quick drink to seal the day’s luck. He wasn’t a drunk, but he firmly believed that if he didn’t toast a good sale, next time would bring no fortune. Having downed his measure, Simon wandered the busy street in high spirits, eyeing the shopfronts and crowds. Then his gaze caught on something—a young couple by a store window. The girl, fresh-faced and bright, stood beside her lanky young man.
She stared, mesmerised, at a dress displayed on a mannequin.
“Sophie, come on, why’re you gaping at that rag?”
“Look at it—it’s perfect! Just my size.”
“Honestly, who cares?”
“You’re hopeless, Tom! This is the latest trend—vintage! Get it for me for Mother’s Day?”
“Sophie, you know we’re scraping by. If I buy that, we’ll be living on beans all month!”
“We’ll manage! Please, Tom? It’s been a year since we married, and you’ve never given me a holiday gift—not even at Christmas!”
“Sophie, don’t do this. Back to cabbage soup again?”
“Tom, darling, I love you,” Sophie declared, planting a loud kiss on his lips before nudging him toward the shop.
The lad sighed, catching Simon’s eye with a resigned shrug—”Women, eh?” Soon, the couple fluttered out of the shop, Sophie laughing brightly, clinging to her husband’s arm before vanishing into the crowd. Simon lingered, lost in thought. He studied the dress in the window—a simple floral thing, not unlike Val’s old sundress from their courting days.
Something stirred in his chest. Was it nostalgia? Or the sight of his own younger self in that pair? A long-forgotten warmth spread through him, and suddenly, it struck him: “I’ve never given Val a gift. Always too busy. Thought it was nonsense. But look at young Tom—willing to go hungry just to make his wife happy. Must mean he loves her. And me? Did I ever love Val? Thought so before marriage. Then it all faded. Just kept living. Nothing worth remembering—just chores. What a life.”
That stolen glimpse of someone else’s joy burned so sharply it ached. He wanted—needed—to feel it himself.
Simon marched into the shop. A young shopgirl hurried over.
“Can I help you?”
“Aye, lass. That dress in the window—the one on the dummy.”
“Oh! It’s all the rage—vintage style, pure silk. Your daughter will love it.”
“Not for my daughter. For my wife.”
“How lovely!” she chirped, wrapping the purchase.
“How much?”
She named the price. Simon balked—a small fortune.
“That’s steep!”
“It’s by a famous designer,” she explained patiently.
Simon hesitated. Then Sophie’s beaming face flashed before him again.
“I’ll take it.”
He counted out the notes and left, clutching the bag. His neighbour soon found him. The ride home was lively—his mate bragged about his own profits, bringing home every last penny.
“And you? Do well?”
“How d’you mean?”
“How much’d you make?”
“Since when do you count my money?” Simon snapped.
“All right, no need to bite!”
Back home, Val was still at the farm. Simon fed the livestock, mucked out the pens, slopped the pigs. His heart felt heavy. He’d done a good thing—bought a gift—so why this gnawing guilt? He spat, went inside, and poured himself a drink. Then another. It dulled the unease.
The door banged—Val was back, sour as ever. Spotting him at the table:
“Sat there doing nothing? How’d the market go?”
“Fine. Money’s there.”
She counted. “Seems light. Did you lose some?”
“No, it’s—well, the rest’s in that bag.”
Frowning, she pulled out the dress.
“Who’s this for? Lucy? Bit big for her—wasting money!”
“It’s for you,” Simon mumbled, suddenly shy. “For Mother’s Day.”
“Me?” Doubtful. Then, still disbelieving: “Really?”
“Just you.” Simon brightened at the lack of scolding. “Who else?”
“Oh, Simon—” Val’s voice cracked. She dashed off.
Ten minutes later, she returned, teary-eyed.
“Doesn’t fit. I’ve gone too broad.”
“But—” He floundered. “I remember you in one just like it, back when we sat on that bench.”
“Silly man,” she sniffed. “That was years ago. I’ve changed.”
“Seeing those flowers—I remembered all those evenings. You so slim beside me, the sky scattered with stars like spilled grain.”
“Oh, Simon. Those were good times.”
They sat reminiscing until dusk. The children trickled in—first Lucy, their eldest.
“Why’re you sitting in the dark?” She flicked the light on, spotted the dress. “What’s this? Who’s it for? This is this season’s must-have! Mum! Dad! Who’s it for?”
Val glanced at Simon.
“For you, scamp. Your dad brought it for Mother’s Day.”
“Dad! I love you!” She kissed his cheek, dashed off, then returned, strutting like a model. It fit her perfectly. She grabbed her coat. “Off to Mia’s!” and vanished.
The younger ones got sweets. Night fell. They slept, the hours slipping by sweetly.
At dawn, Val woke him.
“Up, Simon.” She ruffled his hair. “Breakfast’s ready.” Her gaze was so tender he nearly drowned in it.
“Morning already? Well—happy Mother’s Day, love.”
“You gave me that yesterday. Thank you.”
“Oh, come on.” He flushed.
“Wash up and eat.”
They hadn’t shared such a warm morning in years. May there be many more.
