Two Decades Without a Gift: A Quiet Love.
Edward Whitmore had never bought his wife a present, yet they had spent twenty years of marriage in perfect harmony. Not that he was stingythe right moment had simply never come. With Eleanor, everything had moved quickly: a month after meeting, they were wed.
Their courtship had never involved grand gestures. He would visit her in the tiny village where she lived, whistling beneath her window. Shed hurry out, and theyd sit on the bench by the gate, chatting softly until midnight.
Their first kiss had been stolen on the day of their engagement. Then came the wedding, the steady rhythm of life with its chores and worries. Edward proved a shrewd businessman, turning his pig farm into a success. Eleanor worked just as hard, her vegetable garden the envy of the neighbours. Children followednappies, lace dresses, childhood fevers. Gifts? Never a thought. Holidays were marked with a simple, hearty meal. Their days passed quietly, uneventful but content.
One day, Edward went to market with his neighbour to sell potatoes and bacon, just before Mothers Day. Hed cleared out his cellar, sorted the potatoes, and decided to offload the surplus. As for the bacon, better to sell now before slaughtering the next pig. The morning was crisp, the air tinged with spring. Against all odds, everything sold like hotcakes. The bacon vanished in a blink, the potatoes snapped up like sweets. “Not bad,” Edward mused, pleased. “Eleanor will be happy.”
He packed the empty sacks into his neighbours van and set off to run errands. Eleanor had given him a short list. Out of habit, he stopped at the local pub to toast his good fortune. He wasnt much of a drinker, but he firmly believed skipping a celebratory pint would curse his next sale. After downing his ale, he stepped back into the bustle of the street, idly watching the crowds. Then, quite suddenly, he stumbled upon an unexpected scene.
Outside a boutique, a young couple stood transfixed by a dress on display. The girl, fresh as a daisy, gushed:
“Come on, Lily, we cant stand here all day!”
“Look, James, its gorgeous! It would suit me perfectly.”
“Pff. Its just fabric.”
“You absolute plank! Its vintageall the rage! Get it for me for Mothers Day, yeah?”
“Lily, were skint. If I buy that, well be on beans for the rest of the month.”
“Well manage, love! I want it so badly. Weve been married a year, and youve never bought me anythingnot even at Christmas!”
“Lily, youll be the death of me.”
“I love you,” she whispered, kissing him sweetly before dragging him inside.
The lad caught Edwards eye and shrugged with a knowing grin, as if to say, “Women, eh?” Moments later, the pair emerged, Lily giggling, clutching the precious bag. Edward lingered, studying the dresssimple, floral, just like the one Eleanor had worn in their courting days. A long-dormant ache stirred in his chest. Was it nostalgia? Regret? A thought struck him like lightning: *Ive never given Eleanor anything. Too busy. Thought it didnt matter. But that lad would go without to make his wife happy. Out of love. And me? Did I ever love her? Before marriage, I thought so. Then life swallowed it whole. Years of toil, no memories. Bloody hell.*
The stolen joy of the young couple burned him. He wanted to feel it too.
Steeling himself, he marched into the shop. A salesgirl brightened.
“Can I help you?”
“Aye. The dress in the window.”
“Oh, excellent choice! Pure silk, vintage-inspired. Your daughter will adore it.”
“Not for my daughter. For my wife,” he muttered.
“Oh, how lucky she is!” the girl trilled, wrapping it carefully.
“How much?”
When she named the price, Edward nearly choked. A kings ransom.
“Why so steep?” he grumbled.
“Its designer, sir,” she said patiently.
He hesitated. Then Lilys radiant face flashed in his mind.
“Ill take it.”
He counted out the notes and left, oddly proud. His neighbour was already waiting. The ride home was cheerfuluntil the man boasted about his profits.
“You did alright for yourself?”
“Hows that?”
“Made a tidy sum?”
“Counting my money now, are you?” Edward snapped.
“Blimey, steady on,” his neighbour muttered, taken aback.
At home, Eleanor wasnt back from the farm yet. Edward fed the pigs, mucked out the pen. But despite the work, unease gnawed at him. Why? He shrugged it off, poured a whisky. Then another. It dulled the edge.
The door banged open. Eleanor walked in, her usual stern frown in place.
“Youre home, then? Howd the market go?”
“Well. Heres the money.”
She counted the notes.
“Somes missing. Did they haggle?”
“No, its justwell, the rest is in here.”
She pulled out the dress, suspicion darkening her face.
“Whos this for? Margaret? Itll drown her. Wasting our money”
“Its for you,” he said, suddenly shy. “For Mothers Day.”
Silence.
“For me?” Her voice wavered. “Truly?”
“Aye, for you!” he blurted, relieved she wasnt shouting. “Who else?”
Eleanor burst into tears and fled to the bedroom. She returned minutes later, eyes red.
“It doesnt fit. Ive put on weight.”
“What? Butyou had one just like it when we sat on that bench”
“Old fool,” she whispered, laughing through tears. “That was twenty years ago. Things change.”
He met her gaze.
And in that moment, he wonderedperhaps the greatest gift wasnt the dress at all, but this: the chance to remember, and to be remembered, just as they were.
