**17th April**
Everyone on the cul-de-sac knew David as a hopeless oaf—clumsy as a bull, thick as a fence post, or daft as a brush. The insults shifted with his latest blunder, each matching the scale of his folly. His wife’s fury flared accordingly. I’d call him “Darling,” “Sweetpea,” or “Sunshine,” but when neighbours heard my shrieks, they’d mutter, “When will that mule finally stand up to her?” Then they’d recall he was more lamb than lion and shrug: “Never.” David would just shut down—deaf to my rants, indifferent as stone. That maddening calm stoked my rage till my throat clenched, face blotched red, hands trembled. I’d storm out, choking on dry sobs. As I left, he’d murmur, “Where you off to, Sunshine?”
Rewind to when we married. Back then, we floated in bliss. If you’d told me our peace would curdle into this sour grind, I’d have laughed. I’d wed my soulmate, not some… *donkey*. David welded machinery, never touched a pint or cig. Steady as an old oak. Content. Wives of drunkards envied me. We delayed children—saved for a garden room, garage, a car. After the council gave us our semi, I dreamed of making it pristine.
But David? Slower than January thaw. “Work’ll wait,” he’d chuckle. “Why rush? If I’m not itching to do it, it’s just self-slavery.” Never chased promotions. Me? I’d dig the veg patch, paint fences, mow lawns, chop wood for the stove—faster alone than nudging him along.
Then the disasters. Woken once by a crash: kitchen tiles he’d bungled slid clean off the wall. I snapped, “All thumbs, are you?” and hired a pro. Came home another evening to find the neighbour’s Highland cow trampling my flowerbeds—he’d left the gate open. Each day, his dawdling grated more.
Next door stood a derelict cottage. Old Mr Whitaker’s gone, heirs let weeds choke it. Till his grandson James rolled up in a posh Jaguar—back from Aberdeen with wife Lily and toddler Noah. Worked oil rigs there, married, now home for good. Aberdeen paid the bills, but Yorkshire roots called. James transformed that wreck single-handed—a whiz at plumbing, wiring, brickwork. Wife? Nowhere. Just housekeeper and mum.
Watching him, I simmered. Tired of being the strong one. Craved someone to lean on. Pushed David to step up—he shrugged. “Happy as second fiddle.” Folk pitied him, called me a nag. I considered divorce—couldn’t bear hauling this cart alone. Held James up as the ideal. David just smiled: “Always greener, eh?”
He never grasped my hints. “Other wives suffer louts or cheats,” he’d muse telly-side. “I never hurt her. She does as she pleases. I earn decent pounds—why not hire tilers? Why race about?”
Then, tipping point. I’d taken milk to Noah one evening. Lily invited me to stay—opened wine. At dinner, James lorded it: “Pass salt! Too bland! Sizzle it more! Napkins! Cork-puller! Why’s it cold? Why’d you scorch it? Pipe down—I know best!” Lily fluttered, mute.
When Noah wailed, Lily escaped to him. I tried chatter: “Heard you’re eyeing new furniture?” Lily brightened, started…
“*I’ll* pick it!” James cut in. “Easy spending my wages!” My stomach dropped. Watching meek Lily shrink, I cursed James silently. Glanced at that “happy couple”. Slunk home heavy-hearted.
“Sunshine? Fancy a cuppa? Brewed it how you like.”
I hugged David. He gaped, baffled.
“Darling, you’ve gone soft—did they sneak whisky in that milk?”
Suddenly, his flaws faded. Divorce? Folly. Why eye others’ windows? Polish your own.
“David, what shall I cook tomorrow?”
“Your call, love. Easy does it.”
“Oh—and I want new
John still took his time hanging the garden gate the next summer, but Irene merely sighed and fetched the paintbrush herself, watching his familiar, steady hands smooth the wood with a quiet smile—the passing years had proven the value of his constant warmth, a gentle anchor amidst life’s storms, and she found in his calm presence a deep, enduring comfort and gratitude.
The Many Faces of a Misunderstood Neighbor
