**The Handkerchief**
“Bloody hell, Greg’s snoring again!” Emily thought irritably. She pushed her husband’s arm away and turned onto her side. Glancing at her phone, she noted it was past two in the morning.
“I won’t get any sleep now, and I’ve got work tomorrow,” she grumbled. “I’ll be nodding off by lunch. At least it’s not an early shift, but still. I’m not twenty anymore, when I could dance all night and wake up fresh as a daisy. And it’s not like those moonlit dates where I’d come home buzzing, replaying every word of our deep, clever conversations—though now, all I remember are a few scattered lines and that foolish, blissful smile. Greg’s face, though, sticks in my mind like a film reel—his kind, steady grey eyes, so open and warm.”
Meanwhile, Greg let out another thunderous snore, completely unaware, dozing peacefully beside her.
“What am I supposed to do? Maybe we should just sleep in separate rooms,” Emily wondered.
With nothing better to do, she started dredging up old grievances and inventing new ones. It felt like she’d piled up enough resentment to fill a freight train and a Tesco trolley. What was driving her tonight? Resentment? Irritation? Disappointment? Who could say?
“The kids are grown. It’s just the two of us now. Everything’s fine, but… something’s off. What is it?” The thought gnawed at her like a blunt drill, leaving holes no broom could sweep clean.
In the dark, she studied her sleeping husband. He breathed softly, oblivious to her scrutiny as she mentally catalogued his flaws, doubling them without bothering to divide by zero—though some long-buried maths lesson whispered that wasn’t how sums worked. Still, it was easier to spot the speck in another’s eye than the plank in your own.
“Greg’s gone completely grey. Put on weight, too. Wrinkles like old map lines crease his forehead, betraying every hardship we’ve weathered together. And he used to be so handsome!”
“He doesn’t greet me like he used to. No more running to the hallway to take my coat, kissing me before asking about my day. And the way he slurps his tea—it drives me mad! He hides his dirty work clothes, but the second he’s asleep, I toss them in the wash. Next morning, fresh shirt ready, and all he says is, ‘I wasn’t done with that one!'”
Oh, he’d hurt her before, badly. They’d weathered rough patches, fought and made up more times than she could count. And his family! They’d never approved of her. At their wedding, they’d hugged *him*, handed *him* flowers, while she stood there like a spare part. They’d even counted her dresses and boots, calling her wasteful—though she’d always worked, and every penny went to necessities. Her best friend sewed her clothes from magazine patterns! And Greg? He’d just shrugged. “Don’t mind them, love. They’re jealous.”
The worst memory surfaced—their daughter, little Lily, falling seriously ill. Emily had dragged her to every hospital before doctors pinned it down. One test meant travelling to London. She barely slept, terrified of bad news. And Greg? He’d been silent. Not a word of comfort, not even a hug.
She’d wanted so badly for him to just *say* it: “It’ll be alright.”
He never did. They drifted apart. Then, when it was all over, they’d clung to each other, crying, begging forgiveness.
“But how he courted me! The way we met—I was trudging down some unfamiliar street in the pouring rain, sobbing. Didn’t even want to go home. No umbrella, soaked to the bone, dress clinging to my legs. And why? Over five bloody quid!”
She’d been at uni, exam season. The girls had pooled money to bribe lecturers with flowers and sandwiches. Five pounds each—a fortune when her strict parents gave her just a pound every three days for meals. “No handouts,” her mother said. “You’ve got books, a bus pass. What else d’you need?”
And there she was, drenched, two quid and thirty-five pence in her pocket—the pence saved from skipping lunch. Granny wouldn’t get her pension for another week. No one to borrow from.
Then, suddenly, an umbrella appeared over her head.
“Miss, what are you doing out here alone at this hour? And in this weather!” A man’s voice.
She bristled. “Mind your own business!”
“I only wanted to offer my handkerchief.” He held out a clean, blue-checked one. “Let me at least dry your tears.”
She didn’t know his name yet. The handkerchief smelled faintly of cologne—maybe that’s what reeled her in. She still had it, tucked away like a relic.
“How’d he even know I was crying? The rain was so heavy…”
“I felt it,” Greg told her later. “How could I leave you out there alone?”
At the café, she spilled everything—her usual caution gone. He listened, walked her home, and at her doorstep, pulled out a fiver. “Take it. No tears over money, alright?”
A week later, she tried to repay him. He refused, offended.
“A proper man *wants* to be needed. I should be thanking *you*.”
Dawn crept in. Emily lay awake, replaying their life together—the joys, the losses, the quiet way Greg shouldered every burden without complaint. They’d buried parents, raised children, and now, empty-nested, she fretted over how their “chicks” were faring without them.
“What am I even moaning about? I ought to take a good look in the mirror at *my* wrinkles and creaky joints!”
Greg turned in his sleep, pulled her close, and kissed the back of her head. Just like that, the weight lifted.
Wasn’t this what every woman wanted? To be cherished, her problems carried without a word, cradled like a child, her tears dried with a handkerchief?
Emily woke at ten and shuffled to the kitchen.
“Sleeping beauty’s up?” Greg kissed her. “You woke me at six—purring like old Whiskers here.”
“You mean I was *snoring*?”
“Well, let’s say *daintily* snuffling. Didn’t you know?”
“No,” she admitted quietly.
Funny, how quick we are to judge others while ignoring our own flaws. Maybe we should all take a harder look in the mirror.
And as for the rest? Well, most problems can be solved together—preferably under an umbrella.
