THE HANDKERCHIEF.
“Greg’s snoring again!” thought Veronica irritably. She pushed away her husband’s arm, which had been draped over her, and turned onto her other 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. “I’ll be nodding off all day. Not that I have to be up early—I’m on the late shift—but still. I’m not twenty anymore, when you could dance all night and wake up fresh as a daisy. Those moonlit dates are long gone, the ones where you’d come home too giddy to sleep, replaying every word of your deep, meaningful conversations with Greg. And funny enough, you’d remember none of it—just a phrase or two, grinning like a fool, stupidly happy. His face flickering in your mind like an old film reel, so close and familiar. Those grey eyes—kind, steady, honest as the day…”
Meanwhile, Greg let out another thunderous snore, blissfully unaware, still peacefully dozing beside her.
“What am I supposed to do? Maybe we should agree to sleep in separate rooms from now on?” Veronica mused.
With nothing better to do, she began dredging up old grievances and inventing new ones. It felt like she’d accumulated enough woes to fill a freight train—with room left over for a supermarket trolley. What was driving her tonight? Resentment? Frustration? Disappointment? Who could say?
“The children are grown. Now it’s just the two of us. Everything should be fine, but… something’s off. What is it?” Troubled thoughts gnawed at her, boring holes in her mind like a blunt drill—nothing could sweep them away now.
In the dark, she watched her sleeping husband. He breathed softly, oblivious to her scrutiny as she catalogued his flaws under the cover of night, doubling their weight in her mind, conveniently forgetting to divide by zero—though some long-buried school lesson whispered that you couldn’t. It’s easy to spot a speck in someone else’s eye, isn’t it?
“Greg’s gone completely grey. Put on weight, too. Wrinkles like rivers on a map crease his forehead, betraying his age, the hardships we’ve weathered together. And yet—what a handsome lad he was!”
“He doesn’t greet me like he used to when I come home from work. No more rushing to the hallway to take my coat, no kiss, no asking how my day was. And the way he slurps his tea—it drives me mad. Hides his dirty clothes like I won’t notice, and the minute he’s asleep, I’m tossing shirts and trousers into the wash. Next morning, I lay out fresh ones, but he just grumbles: ‘I haven’t broken in the last lot yet, and you’re handing me new ones! Give me back my old things!’”
Oh, he’d hurt her before, deeply. They’d weathered their share of storms—fought, made up, fought again. And his family! They’d never thought her good enough for Greg. At the wedding, they’d hugged him, handed him flowers, congratulated *him*—while she stood there like a spare part. They’d even counted her dresses and boots, called her a spendthrift to her face! Never mind that she’d always worked, that her wardrobe was humble as could be—bargain-bin necessities, most of them, or handmade by a friend copying patterns from magazines. And Greg? He’d just shrugged. “Ignore them, love. They’re jealous. Rise above it.”
Then came the worst memory. “Our Lizzie—so poorly. Hospitals, tests, the fear of what the doctors might say. We had to go to London for one last examination. I barely slept, sick with worry. And Greg? He just… stayed quiet. Never held me, never whispered, ‘It’ll be all right.’ We drifted apart, convinced we didn’t understand each other… until the ordeal was over, and we clung to each other, crying, forgiving.”
But oh—how he’d courted her! The way they’d met! She’d been wandering down an unfamiliar street in tears, rain drenching her to the bone. No umbrella. Skirt clinging to her legs. Heartbroken.
She’d been at university then. Exam season. The girls had pooled money for gifts—flowers, chocolates, sandwiches for the professors. A fiver each. She didn’t have it. Her mother had refused outright—”No bootlicking! Hit the books instead!”—as if Veronica hadn’t studied hard enough already. Her scholarship money went straight to her mother, who doled out a pound for three days’ meals. Not a penny more. “You live at home, you’ve a bus pass—what else do you need?” Sensible, frugal parents. She couldn’t resent them; they’d taught her thrift.
But there she was, soaked and sobbing, two pounds thirty-five in her pocket—thirty-five pence saved by skipping lunch. Her gran, bless her, had scraped together two quid from her pension, but it wasn’t enough. Tomorrow, the money was due. And then—
An umbrella opened above her. A man’s voice: “What’s a lass doing out this late, alone in the rain? Catch your death—or worse!”
“What business is it of yours?” she’d snapped.
“Only thought you might need this.” He held out a handkerchief—crisp white, blue checks. “Dry those tears.”
She hadn’t known his name then. The handkerchief smelled faintly of cologne. She’d washed it later, kept it like a relic.
“How’d he even know I was crying? The rain was sheets—you couldn’t tell tears from downpour!”
“I just knew,” Greg had told her later. “Couldn’t leave a lovely girl weeping in the street. Not in my nature.”
“Who are you, then?” he’d asked.
“Veronica.”
“Greg. Fancy a cuppa? There’s a café just here. My treat. Warm up, powder your nose—tell me what’s got you so down. Scout’s honour, your secrets are safe.”
Against her will, she’d smiled.
And there, over tea, she’d spilled everything—her worries laid bare. Greg had listened, walked her home, and at her doorstep, pulled out a fiver. “Take it. No arguments. A clever girl like you shouldn’t fret over money. It comes and goes.”
A week later, her gran’s pension came through. Beaming, she’d tried to repay Greg on a park bench. He’d refused, almost offended. “A man’s job is to be useful. Thank *you* for letting me feel I was. If you’ll have me, I’d like to solve your problems.”
They’d never spoken of it again.
Dawn crept in. Veronica lay awake, replaying their long, unexpectedly happy life. They’d had it all—joy and sorrow. Never once had Greg left her to face trouble alone. He’d carried her burdens without complaint.
They’d buried loved ones, wept in each other’s arms like lost children. Now, with the kids married off, they were alone again—two old souls fretting: “How will they manage without us?”
“What am I on about?” Veronica chided herself. “Look at me—wrinkles, extra stone, arthritic fingers! Enough wallowing. What’s a little snoring? Just nudge him onto his side—problem solved.”
Greg turned in his sleep, pulling her close, kissing the back of her head. A weight lifted.
Wasn’t this what every woman wanted? To be cherished, worries shouldered without a word, called “my little girl” even when grey-haired, tears dried with a handkerchief, soothed like a child?
Veronica woke at ten, shuffling to the kitchen.
“Up at last, sleepyhead?” Greg kissed her. “You woke me early—six-ish. Purring like old Tom on my arm.”
“You mean I was *snoring*?”
“Well—let’s say you were breathing through your nose… emphatically. Didn’t you know?”
“No.”
Funny, how quick we are to spot the speck in another’s eye, blind to the plank in our own.
Best take a long look in the mirror first.
And remember—most troubles can be weathered together, under one umbrella.
