THE HANDKERCHIEF.
“Greg’s snoring again!” thought Veronica with irritation. She pushed away her husband’s arm, which had been draped over her, and turned onto her side. Glancing at her phone, she noted it was already past one in the morning.
“That’s it, I won’t get back to sleep now, and I’ve got work tomorrow,” she fumed inwardly. “I’ll be nodding off all day. Though it’s not like I have to get up early—I’ve got the late shift—but still. I’m not twenty anymore, when you could dance all night and wake up fresh as a daisy. Those long-ago moonlit dates where you’d come home too giddy to sleep, replaying every word of those deep, clever conversations with Greg. Funny thing is, you never remember any of it later—just a few silly phrases, and you’re left grinning like a fool. And his face, flickering like scenes from a film—so close, so familiar. Those grey eyes of his, kind and steady, no hidden depths, just… clear.”
Meanwhile, Greg let out another thunderous snore, undisturbed, dozing peacefully beside her.
“What am I supposed to do now? Maybe we should start sleeping in separate rooms,” Veronica mused.
With nothing else to occupy her, she began dredging up old grievances and inventing new ones. It felt like she’d collected enough to fill a freight train—and still have some left over for a supermarket trolley.
What was driving her tonight? Resentment? Frustration? Disappointment? Who knew?
“The kids are grown. Just the two of us left. Everything *should* be fine, but something’s off. What is it?” Anxious thoughts bored into her mind like a blunt drill, leaving holes no broom could sweep clean.
In the darkness, Veronica studied her sleeping husband. He breathed softly, oblivious to her scrutiny as she mentally catalogued his flaws and multiplied them by two—forgetting, in her irritation, to divide by zero. Though some buried school lesson whispered that dividing by zero was impossible. Funny how you could spot a speck in someone else’s eye but miss the log in your own.
“Greg’s gone completely grey,” she noted. “And put on weight. His forehead’s creased like a map, betraying every hardship weathered together—illness, stress, time itself. He was such a handsome man once.”
“He doesn’t greet me like he used to when I come home. No more rushing to the hall, taking my coat, kissing me without asking how my day was. And the way he slurps his tea—*God*, it sets my teeth on edge. He hides his dirty clothes from me, but the second he’s asleep, I shove his shirts and trousers into the washing machine. In the morning, I lay out fresh ones, and *still* he grumbles: ‘I haven’t even broken these in yet! Give me back my old shirts!’”
Yes, he’d hurt her before, deeply. They’d weathered rough patches, fought and made up, only to fight again. And his family! They’d always acted like she wasn’t good enough for Greg. At their wedding, they’d embraced *him*, handed *him* flowers—she might as well have been invisible. Once, they’d even counted her dresses and boots, scolding her for extravagance—as if she hadn’t always worked, as if her wardrobe wasn’t thrifty and practical! A friend sewed her clothes from magazine patterns. And Greg? He’d never stood up for her. “Ignore them, love,” he’d say. “They’re just jealous. Rise above it.”
Then came the worst memory—the one that still brought tears. Their daughter, Lizzie, had fallen seriously ill. Veronica had dragged her to every hospital before they got a diagnosis. They’d needed to travel to London for tests. She hadn’t slept for nights, terrified of what the doctors might say. And Greg? He’d seemed so calm. Silent. Never once pulled her close and said, *It’ll be all right.*
They’d drifted then. It felt like they didn’t understand each other anymore.
Until the storm passed. Until they’d clung to each other, weeping, begging and granting forgiveness.
“And yet—how he’d *pursued* her! That first meeting—she’d been trudging down an unfamiliar street, sobbing, unwilling to go home. The heavens wept with her. No umbrella. Soaked to the bone, her dress clinging to her legs. And her misery? A university exam period. The girls had pooled money—five pounds each—for gifts to butter up the professors. Five pounds! Her mother had refused, sneering: “Stop brown-nosing. Just study harder.”
Never mind that Veronica *had* studied. That she *gave* her entire scholarship to her parents, who doled out pocket money like jailers—a quid every three days. “No extra. You live at home. A bus pass is all you need.”
So there she was, crying in the rain, two pounds and some loose change in her pocket. No one to borrow from—her friends were just as skint.
Then—an umbrella opened above her. A black one, wooden-handled.
“You shouldn’t walk alone at night,” a man’s voice said. “No umbrella? You’ll catch your death.”
“It’s none of your business!” she’d snapped.
“I only wanted to offer a handkerchief,” he’d said mildly. “Clean. Let me dry your tears at least.”
She hadn’t known his name then. But from his pocket, he’d produced a large white handkerchief—blue checks. She still kept it folded in her drawer. It had smelled faintly of aftershave, something warm and masculine. Maybe that’s what had disarmed her.
She’d taken it, washed it, treasured it.
“How did he even *know* I was crying? The rain was sheeting down—you couldn’t have *seen* tears through it.”
Later, Greg had confessed: “I just *felt* it. How could I leave you there? Alone? Upset? I’d never forgive myself.”
He’d introduced himself, coaxed her into a café (“Hot tea? Coffee? My treat.”), and listened—really *listened*—as she poured out every worry. Then, outside her flat, he’d pressed five pounds into her hand.
“Take it. Don’t argue. Money’s no reason for tears.”
She’d accepted. A week later, her gran—her ally—got her pension and repaid her. Gleeful, Veronica had presented the cash to Greg in the park.
He’d refused. Worse—he’d looked *hurt.*
“A man’s worth is being *needed,*” he’d said. “*Thank* you for letting me help.”
They never spoke of it again.
Dawn crept through the curtains. Veronica lay awake, retracing their life—good and bad, but *never* abandoned to face hardship alone. Without complaint, Greg had carried not just his burdens, but hers.
They’d buried loved ones together. Held each other like frightened hamsters.
Now their children were married, and here they were—just the two of them again. Was *that* why she couldn’t sleep? Fretting over their fledglings, launched into the world?
“What am *I* complaining about?” she chastised herself. “Look in the mirror! Wrinkles, extra pounds, arthritic fingers. Enough whinging! So he snores? Ask him to roll over—simple!”
Greg turned in his sleep, wrapped both arms around her like a treasure, and kissed the back of her head. A weight lifted.
Wasn’t this what every woman wanted? To be loved, cared for—to have her problems shouldered without a word, to be called “my little girl” while her tears were dried with a handkerchief?
Veronica woke at ten and shuffled to the kitchen.
“Sleeping beauty awakens,” Greg teased, kissing her. “You woke *me* at six—purring like old Tomcat on my arm.”
“You mean I was *snoring*?”
“Delicate way of putting it,” he grinned. “You didn’t know?”
“No,” she admitted softly.
Funny, how quick we are to spot a speck in another’s eye, while ignoring the log in our own.
Maybe it’s better to study our own reflection first.
And as for the rest? Every problem can be weathered—under the shelter of an umbrella.
