**The Cost of a Stash: How Victor Nearly Lost His Wife**
Rita stepped into the back garden to hang out the washing. It was a fine day, the summer sun warm on her skin, drying everything in no time. Out of habit, she glanced over the fence into the neighbours’ yard. There was Victor, pacing frantically, searching under the porch, rummaging in the shed, even checking beneath the bench.
“What’ve you lost, Vic? Yesterday’s common sense?” she teased with a grin.
But Victor didn’t even turn, just waved her off and disappeared inside. Rita shrugged and turned back, but before she could step inside, the door burst open and in rushed Tamsin—Victor’s wife—her face streaked with tears.
“Tammy, love, what’s happened?” Rita gasped, grabbing her arm.
“How could he?” Tamsin sobbed, barely able to speak. “How could he even *think* such a thing?”
Rita patted her shoulder, utterly baffled. Those two had always been picture-perfect—no arguments, no grudges, just flower-filled gardens and the smell of fresh baking drifting from their windows.
Victor and Tamsin lived in a semi-detached house on the outskirts of Chelmsford. Their home looked like something off a postcard—blooming in summer, neatly shovelled in winter. Their daughter was married, their son, Alfie, finishing college. Victor worked as an engineer, Tamsin as a seamstress at a local factory. Rita and her husband, Andy, had been friends with them for years, sharing holidays and helping each other out.
Victor had one quirk—he loved hiding money. Tucked away in the shed, buried under flowerbeds, even slipped beneath a loose floorboard in the summerhouse. Not out of secrecy, just habit. And then he’d forget where he’d stashed it, tearing the place apart to find it.
Tamsin knew. She’d scolded him for it in their younger days before giving up—some habits never changed. She never took his money, even if she stumbled upon it. Twenty-six years of marriage had taught her patience.
That morning, Rita spotted Victor again, dashing about like a madman. She laughed, calling out, “Lost another secret stash, you daft sod?”
But half an hour later, Tamsin stormed into Rita’s house, eyes swollen with tears. Rita sat her down, poured tea, offered biscuits.
“You’ll never believe it,” Tamsin choked out. “He *accused* me of stealing his money! Said, ‘You found it, took it, and kept quiet!’ This from the man who always called me his ‘saint’! Now I’m a *thief*? I’ve *never* touched his stupid stashes, even when I tripped over them!”
Rita gasped. She’d never have expected this from Victor. Tamsin was gentle, kind—hurting her was like kicking a puppy.
“Don’t let it get to you, love. He’ll remember, find his stash, and be grovelling in no time.”
“Well, I won’t be here! My holiday starts next week—I’m off to me mum’s in the countryside. And I *won’t* be coming back! Let him live with his precious money!”
Meanwhile, Victor tore through the village, searching not just for cash but for his wife. He stopped by the local shop where Tammy’s friend, Tracey, worked.
“Trace, seen Tam?”
“Nope. Lost the missus, eh? She’ll be back. Not the type to walk out, that one.”
Defeated, Victor trudged home—only to bump into Alfie and his girlfriend, Emily, clutching a lavish bouquet of red roses.
“Emily, birthday?” Victor asked, vaguely recalling Alfie asking for money.
“Yeah, nineteen! Off to a café with mates later,” she beamed.
Victor forced a smile, but his gut twisted. He *hadn’t* given Alfie any money. Where’d the roses come from?
He called Alfie later. “Son, where’d you get the cash for those flowers?”
“Oh—found an envelope under the toolbox in the shed yesterday. Figured it was one of your hidey-holes. Meant to tell you…”
Victor went silent, shame and relief flooding him. “Right… don’t you dare let Emily down.”
Now he *had* to find Tamsin. And beg forgiveness.
Next door, Andy was fixing the gate, smirking when he spotted Victor.
“Well, you’ve cocked up proper, mate. Tammy’s inside with Rita. Accusing *her* of thieving? Lucky she hasn’t packed her bags yet.”
“I know,” Victor muttered. “Gotta fix this. And that stash? Alfie spent it on flowers for his girl.”
“Good lad!” Rita called from the doorstep. “Now you’d better think of how to make it up to Tammy!”
Victor bolted home, gathered *every* hidden envelope, jumped in his car, and sped off. An hour later, he returned—a small black bag in hand.
He approached Tamsin. “I’m sorry. I was a right idiot. Come home, please.”
Tamsin glared, but her anger was already softening.
“No,” she muttered—but the tears were gone.
“Got you something. Remember that necklace in the jeweller’s? The silver chain with the sapphire pendant?”
He handed her the box. Tamsin’s breath hitched as she opened it—a delicate silver chain, the pendant shaped like her birthstone.
“Oh, Vic…” she whispered, fastening it around her neck despite herself.
“There we go!” Rita clapped. “A gift like that could forgive *any* hidden stash!”
They laughed all evening, Rita setting up a table in the garden while the story of Victor’s “lost” money became the talk of the neighbourhood for weeks.
And Victor? He stopped hiding money. Too afraid of losing Tamsin again. Because without her, what was even the point? She *was* his home.
**Lesson learned:** Trust is worth more than any stash. And a well-timed gift never hurts.
