**The Cost of a Stash: How Victor Nearly Lost His Wife**
I stepped outside to hang the washing on a rare sunny afternoon, the kind where everything dries in minutes. As I clipped the last shirt to the line, I glanced over the fence into the neighbours’ garden. There was Victor, pacing frantically, checking under the porch, rifling through the shed, even peering beneath the garden bench.
“Lost something, Victor? Or just yesterday’s common sense?” I teased, grinning.
He didn’t even turn, just waved a hand dismissively before vanishing inside. I shrugged and turned back—until the door flew open and in rushed Tamsin, his wife, eyes red with tears.
“Tamsin, what on earth happened?” I rushed to her side.
“How could he?” she choked out, trembling. “How could he even think such a thing?”
I patted her shoulder, bewildered. Their marriage had always seemed perfect—no rows, no grudges, just flower-filled gardens and the scent of fresh pies drifting from their kitchen.
Victor and Tamsin lived in a quaint cottage in the outskirts of Bristol. The kind you’d see on a postcard—bursting with roses in summer, neat and swept in winter. Their daughter was married, their son, Oliver, was finishing college. Victor worked as an engineer, Tamsin as a seamstress at a local shop. Their neighbours—me and Andrew—had known them for years, shared holidays, helped each other out.
Victor had one quirk: he adored secret stashes. He tucked money away everywhere—in the shed, under flowerbeds, even beneath the floorboards of the summerhouse. Not to hide it—just for peace of mind. The trouble was, he always forgot where he’d left it.
Tamsin knew. Early on, she’d scolded him, but eventually, she let it slide. She never took a penny, even when she stumbled upon it. Twenty-six years of marriage had taught her patience.
That morning, I spotted Victor again, racing around the garden like a madman.
“Lost another stash, you silly sod?” I laughed.
But half an hour later, Tamsin stormed into my house, tears streaming. I poured tea, set out biscuits, and waited.
“Can you believe it?” she sobbed. “He accused me of stealing his money! Said, ‘You found it and took it!’ This from the man who once told me I was his ‘everything.’ And now I’m a thief? I’ve never touched his stashes—not once!”
My stomach dropped. I’d never have thought Victor capable of such a thing. Tamsin was the gentlest soul—hurting her was like defacing a church.
“Don’t dwell on it,” I reassured her. “He’ll remember, find his stupid stash, and beg forgiveness.”
“I don’t want it! I’m visiting Mum in the countryside next week. I shan’t come back! Let him live with his bloody money!”
Meanwhile, Victor tore through the village, hunting for both cash and wife. He stopped at the local shop where Tanya, Tamsin’s friend, worked.
“Tanya, seen Tamsin?”
“Nope. Lost her, have you? She’ll come back. Not the abandoning type.”
Victor trudged home, bumping into Oliver and his girlfriend, Evelyn, clutching a grand bouquet of roses.
“Birthday, Evelyn?” Victor asked, recalling Oliver had asked for money for a gift.
“Nineteen today! Off to the pub with mates later,” she beamed.
Victor forced a smile, but guilt twisted inside him. He hadn’t given Oliver a penny—so where’d the flowers come from?
He rang his son.
“Oliver, where’d you get the money for those roses?”
“Found it under the toolbox on the veranda. Knew it was your stash. Meant to tell you…”
Victor exhaled, shame and relief warring in his chest.
“Right. Don’t you let Evelyn down.”
Now, to find Tamsin.
He found Andrew fixing the gate, who smirked.
“Made a right mess of things, mate. Tamsin’s inside with your neighbour. Lucky she hasn’t packed her bags yet.”
“I know,” Victor muttered. “Off to apologise. Turns out, Oliver spent my ‘stash’ on flowers.”
“Good lad!” I called from the porch. “Best think of how to make it up to Tamsin now!”
Victor dashed home, gathered every hidden envelope, and sped off. An hour later, he returned with a small velvet box.
He approached Tamsin, head bowed.
“Forgive me. I was a fool. Come home.”
She glared but softened, just a little.
“Not going back,” she mumbled, though the fight was gone.
“Got you this. Remember that necklace in the jeweller’s? The one with the pendant?”
He handed her the box. She opened it—a delicate gold chain with her zodiac sign.
“Oh, Victor…” she whispered, fastening it at once.
“Now that’s more like it!” I clapped. “A gift like that could make anyone forgive a missing stash!”
We laughed well into the evening, sharing stories over tea in the garden.
As for Victor? He never stashed money again. Couldn’t risk losing Tamsin—she was his home, after all.
