Simon Weatherby had never once bought his wife a present in the twenty years they’d been married. Not that he was against the idea—it just never really came up. He and Val had tied the knot in a whirlwind, barely a month after they’d met.
Their courtship had been swift and practical, devoid of grand gestures. He’d ride his motorbike to the village where she lived, whistle under her window, and she’d come dashing out. They’d perch on the old bench by the garden gate, chatting sparingly until midnight. He didn’t even kiss her until after they were engaged. The wedding was simple, and then life settled into its predictable rhythm—chores, bills, the occasional village fête. Simon became a proper farmer, raising pigs and chickens, while Val kept a garden so lush the neighbours sighed with envy. Then came the children—nappies, runny noses, sleepless nights. Who had time for presents? Holidays blurred into one another, marked by nothing more than a roast and a pint at the pub. Their marriage was steady, if unremarkable, built on comfortable routine.
One March morning, Simon bundled his surplus potatoes and a side of bacon into his mate Dave’s van to sell at the market. The air had that crisp hint of spring, the kind that made farmers hopeful. To his surprise, the goods flew off the table. “Not bad at all,” he thought, patting the wad of cash in his pocket. “Val’ll be chuffed.”
After stowing the empty crates, he wandered into town to pick up a few things Val had asked for—flour, tea, the usual. But first, out of habit, he ducked into The Fox & Hound for a celebratory pint. He wasn’t a drunk, mind you, just superstitious—if he didn’t toast a good sale, the next one might go belly-up.
With a pleasant buzz, he strolled past shop windows, people-watching absentmindedly, until a scene caught his eye. A young couple lingered outside a boutique, the girl—bright-eyed and barely out of school—staring dreamily at a dress in the window.
“Come on, Lizzie, it’s just a bit of fabric,” her boyfriend groaned.
“It’s vintage! Proper retro! Buy it for me? For Mother’s Day?”
“Liz, we’re skint as it is. If I drop fifty quid on that, we’ll be living on beans for a fortnight.”
She pouted, then peppered his cheek with kisses. “Please, Robbie? A whole year married and not a single gift—not even at Christmas!”
Robbie rolled his eyes, spotting Simon’s amused glance as if to say, “Women, eh?” But in the end, he caved. Lizzie squealed, hugged him tight, and they vanished into the shop. Moments later, she twirled out in the dress, beaming like she’d won the lottery.
And suddenly, Simon’s chest ached. Had he ever made Val feel like that? Back when they’d met, she’d worn a floral sundress—simple, pretty. Was that the last time he’d noticed? Bloody hell. Robbie, barely scraping by, still scraped together joy for his wife. What was Simon’s excuse?
Before he could talk himself out of it, he marched into the shop. A chipper salesgirl bounced over. “Need help, sir?”
“That dress in the window. I’ll take it.”
“Oh, brilliant choice! Pure silk, very ‘60s. Your daughter will love it.”
Simon scowled. “It’s for my wife.”
The girl lit up. “Oh! How lovely!”
Then she named the price. Simon nearly choked. “Fifty quid? For a frock?”
“Designed by a top London stylist,” she chirped.
He hesitated, thumbing the cash—but Lizzie’s radiant face flashed in his mind. “Fine. Wrap it up.”
Dave was waiting by the van. “Made a killing today, eh?” he grinned.
“Mind your own business,” Simon muttered.
Back home, Val was still out with the hens. Simon fed the pigs, mucked the stables, all the while stewing. Why did buying a gift feel like confessing a crime? He downed two whiskies for courage.
The door creaked open. Val trudged in, wiping her boots. “How’d it go, then?”
“All right. Money’s there.” She counted it, frown deepening.
“Bit short, ain’t it?”
Simon coughed. “Well, there’s… this.” He nudged the bag toward her.
Val pulled out the dress, baffled. “For our Natalie? Bit fancy for her.”
“For you,” he blurted. “Mother’s Day.”
Her hands stilled. “Me?”
“Try it on.”
She vanished upstairs, returning ten minutes later, red-eyed. “Doesn’t fit. Too snug round the middle.”
Simon gaped. “But—it’s just like the one you wore when we’d sit by the gate.”
Val laughed wetly. “You daft sod, that was twenty years ago!”
He rubbed his neck. “S’pose I just remembered you in it. All skinny and shy, stars winking above like someone’d tossed a handful of farthings into the sky.”
Her face softened. “We were happy then, weren’t we?”
They talked till dusk, until Natalie burst in, flipping the light on. “Blimey, why’re you sat in the—” She spotted the dress. “Is that the new vintage one from town? Whose is it?”
Val smiled. “Yours, chicken. Dad’s gift.”
Natalie shrieked, hugged Simon, and dashed off to model it. “Fits perfect!” she crowed, spinning before bolting out to show her mates.
That night, as Simon drifted off, Val nestled closer. “Thank you,” she whispered.
Morning came with her hand smoothing his hair. “Up, love. Breakfast’s on.”
He blinked. “Oh. Right. Happy Mother’s Day?”
She kissed his forehead. “You already gave it to me.”
Over eggs and toast, the kitchen hummed with warmth. Here’s to many more mornings like it.
