**The Handkerchief**
Once again, Gregory’s snoring filled the room. Annoyed, Emily pushed his arm away from where it rested over her and turned onto her side. Glancing at her phone, she noted it was already past one in the morning.
“I’ll never get back to sleep now,” she grumbled to herself. “And I’ve got work tomorrow—I’ll be nodding off at my desk all day.” Not that she had to be up early—her shift didn’t start till afternoon—but still. She wasn’t twenty anymore, when she could dance all night and wake up fresh as a daisy. Nor was this the early days of moonlit dates, returning home too exhilarated to sleep, replaying every word of their deep, meaningful conversations. Funny how now, she could hardly recall any of those grand speeches—just fragments, yet they still made her grin like a fool. Gregory’s face, so vivid in her memory, his grey eyes kind and steady, always clear as day.
And there he lay, oblivious, letting out another loud snort before settling back into peaceful, rhythmic breathing.
“What am I supposed to do? Maybe we should sleep in separate rooms,” Emily wondered idly.
With nothing better to do, she began dredging up old grievances—and inventing new ones—against her husband. The pile of resentments in her mind could’ve filled a freight train and still spilled over into a supermarket trolley. What drove her at this hour? Resentment? Frustration? Disappointment? Who could say?
“The kids are grown. It’s just the two of us now. Everything’s fine… and yet, something’s off. What is it?” The anxious thought bored into her mind like a blunt drill, and no amount of sweeping would clear the holes it left.
In the dark, she studied her sleeping husband. He breathed softly, unaware of her scrutinizing gaze, searching for flaws under the cover of night, magnifying each one without stopping to divide by reason. Though somewhere, buried deep, a school lesson whispered: *You can’t divide by zero.* But it was always easier to spot the speck in another’s eye, wasn’t it?
“Completely grey now,” she noted. “And he’s put on weight. Wrinkles like rivers on a map crease his forehead, betraying age, shared hardships, illnesses. He used to be so handsome.”
He didn’t greet her with the same delight when she came home from work these days. No longer met her in the hallway to take her coat, kiss her, ask about her day. And the way he slurped his tea—it grated on her nerves. He hid his dirty clothes from her, but the moment he fell asleep, she’d toss them into the washing machine, replacing them with fresh ones by morning. And still, he’d grumble, “I wasn’t done with that shirt! Give it back!”
Oh, he’d hurt her before, deeply. They’d weathered more than one rough patch—fighting, making up, arguing, repairing. And his family! They’d never thought her good enough for him. At their wedding, they’d hugged *him*, handed *him* flowers, as if she were just a bystander. Even counted her dresses and boots, calling her wasteful—though she’d always worked, owned barely anything beyond necessities, most of it cheap or handmade by a friend. Gregory never defended her. “Ignore them, love. They’re just jealous. Rise above it.”
The worst memory surfaced—their daughter, Lily, falling terribly ill. Emily had dragged her to every hospital before they found the diagnosis. One test required a trip to London. She didn’t sleep for nights, terrified of what the doctors might say. And Gregory? He seemed calm. Silent. Didn’t comfort her, didn’t hold her. She’d needed so badly just to hear, *It’ll be all right.* But he didn’t say it. They drifted apart.
Yet when it was over, they cried together, begging forgiveness for things unsaid.
And how he’d courted her! Even their meeting—she’d been trudging down an unfamiliar street, soaked to the bone, no umbrella, crying for reasons the rain hid. She’d refused to go home.
University exams loomed. The girls had pooled money (£5 each) for gifts to butter up their professors. Emily couldn’t afford it. Mum had refused outright: “No need to brown-nose. Just study harder.”
Her scholarship—*increased* for good grades—went straight to Mum, who doled out £1 every three days for meals. Not a penny more. “Why? You live at home, have a bus pass. Extra money’ll lead to nonsense.”
So there she was, penniless, furious at the world, when—
An umbrella appeared over her head.
“Miss, why walk alone so late? In this weather?” A man’s voice.
“It’s none of your business!” she snapped.
“I only wanted to offer my handkerchief. Clean and dry. Let me at least dry your tears.”
From his pocket, he produced it—large, white, with a faint scent of cologne. That handkerchief still lay in their dresser, carefully preserved.
“Gregory,” he introduced himself later, over tea in a nearby café. “Call me Em,” she’d mumbled—and told him *everything*, despite her usual reserve. He listened, insisted on walking her home, and at her doorstep, pressed a £5 note into her hand.
“Take it. Don’t argue. Money’s replaceable; your sorrow isn’t.”
A week later, Gran gave her the cash. Beaming, she tried to repay him—but he refused, almost offended.
“A man’s duty is to be needed. *I* should thank *you* for letting me help. If you’ll allow it, I’d like to keep solving your problems.”
Dawn crept in. Emily lay awake, replaying their life—good, bad, everything in between. Gregory had never once left her to struggle alone. He bore his burdens *and* hers, without complaint.
They’d buried loved ones, clung together like frightened hamsters. Now, with the children married, it was just the two of them—empty-nesters, fretting over their fledglings.
“Why am I even complaining?” she scolded herself. “I should look in the mirror at *my* wrinkles and arthritis-riddled hands. Nothing’s wrong! So he snores—ask him to turn over!”
As if hearing her thoughts, Gregory rolled toward her, still asleep, and pulled her close like something precious, kissing the back of her head. The weight lifted.
That’s all women truly need—to be loved, cared for, their (often self-made) troubles carried without sighing. To have tears wiped away with a handkerchief, to be called *”my little girl”* and rocked like a child.
Emily woke at ten, padding into the kitchen where Gregory kissed her.
“Up already, sleepyhead? You woke me at six—purring like our cat, Whiskers, on my arm.”
“You mean I was *snoring*?” she gasped.
“Well… let’s say you were breathing *enthusiastically* through your nose. You didn’t know?”
“No,” she admitted softly.
We’re quick to spot faults in others, blind to the planks in our own eyes. Perhaps we should study our reflections more closely.
And remember—most problems can be solved together, under the shelter of an umbrella.
