“Have you bought another gift just for your mum and forgotten about me again?” Sarah said with bitterness.
The New Year’s Eve atmosphere filled the flat with the scents of oranges and cinnamon. Sarah, wearing a new silk scarf, was busy setting up the festive table. Margaret, elegant in a traditional English scarf, was helping her with the salads.
The snow fell in thick flakes, cloaking the London streets in a white blanket. Just two days remained before the new year. Sarah stood by the window of their flat on the twelfth floor, absent-mindedly watching the snowfall. In the distance, the dazzling lights of holiday decorations twinkled, and the neighbouring windows already displayed adorned Christmas trees.
On the coffee table lay a small box tied with a golden ribbon—a gift for her mother-in-law. Sarah had chosen it herself: a delicate, traditionally patterned English scarf. Margaret had long wished for such a gift. “I hope John’s pleased with the choice,” Sarah thought, adjusting the bow on the package for the hundredth time.
The sound of a key turning in the lock startled her. John entered, holding a large bag from an expensive store.
“You won’t believe it, I just made it!” he announced excitedly, shaking snow from his coat. “It was the last one. Mum’s going to love it!”
Sarah froze, her heart skipping a beat.
“What’s in there?” she asked, trying to keep her voice casual.
“That cashmere cardigan she spotted last month in Liberty’s. Remember she mentioned it?” John pulled out a luxurious dark chocolate-coloured cardigan from the bag.
Sarah remembered. As well as the fact that the cardigan cost nearly half her monthly salary. And she remembered how, two weeks ago, she showed her husband the silk scarf she liked… He had nodded absent-mindedly and changed the subject.
“Have you bought another gift just for your mum and forgotten about me again?” The words slipped out, steeped in the bitterness of years of resentment.
John stood still, holding the cardigan. His expression shifted from surprise to mild irritation.
“Sarah, you know how important Mum is to me,” he said, placing the cardigan back in the bag. “She’s the only one I’ve got. Besides, we didn’t agree on gifts this year…”
Sarah turned towards the window. Beyond the glass, snow continued to fall, as cold as the emptiness growing inside her.
“We never make plans, John. You just…” She trailed off, feeling her voice betray her with a tremor.
The sound of keys in the hall indicated Margaret’s arrival to discuss the New Year’s menu. Sarah quickly brushed her eyes and forced a strained smile.
“Oh, it’s good to see you both here!” Margaret entered, carrying a bag of oranges. “I thought maybe we could make that Mimosa salad, like last year?”
Sarah nodded mechanically, avoiding eye contact with her mother-in-law, a lump in her throat and hands slightly trembling as she cleared the gift from the coffee table.
“Mum, let me help,” John offered, taking the bag of oranges, but Margaret froze in the doorway, glancing between her son and daughter-in-law.
“Is something wrong?” she quietly inquired. In fifteen years of her son’s marriage, she had learned to sense the tension between them.
“Nothing,” John replied too quickly. “Everything’s fine.”
“Yes, just perfect,” Sarah responded with bitter irony. “John’s just bought his mum a gift. A cardigan. The one from Liberty’s.”
Margaret turned pale as she realized what was happening.
“John, but we discussed this…” she began.
“Mum, please don’t start,” he interrupted. “I just wanted to please you. What’s wrong with that?”
Sarah turned sharply to her husband:
“The problem is you don’t see beyond your own nose! Fifteen years, John. Fifteen years I’ve felt secondary. Every holiday, every weekend — it’s all about your mum. Her wishes, her plans, her presents…”
“Sarah, darling…” Margaret stepped towards her daughter-in-law, but Sarah stepped back.
“No, you’re not to blame. It’s all him,” Sarah gestured towards her husband. “‘Mum’s important to me,’ ‘I only have one mum’… And what am I? Just an attachment to your family life?”
“That’s unfair!” John flared up. “Haven’t I done enough for you?”
“Done enough?” Sarah laughed bitterly. “You don’t even remember what I told you two weeks ago. About the scarf I liked. You nodded and forgot. Yet you remember the cardigan for your mum perfectly!”
A heavy silence enveloped the room. Only the ticking clock on the wall marked the seconds of tense quiet.
“I… I think I’ll go,” Margaret said quietly. “We can discuss the menu tomorrow.”
“Mum, stay…” John began.
“No, dear. You two need to talk. It’s long overdue.”
The door closed quietly behind his mother. Sarah stood frozen by the window, wrapping her arms around herself—a habit born of particularly heavy emotions.
Instead of going home, Margaret wandered down the snowy street. Snowflakes landed on her face, dissolving into unbidden tears. “How blind I’ve been all these years…” passed through her mind.
Her phone buzzed in her pocket. John.
“Mum, where are you? I’ll come down for you.”
“I’m by the bench in the square,” she replied. “We do need to talk.”
Within five minutes, John, having thrown on a jacket over his home sweater, was sitting next to her. Snow continued to fall, covering their shoulders with a white blanket.
“Son,” Margaret took his hand. “Remember how you used to love puzzles as a kid?”
“What’s that got to do with anything?” John asked, perplexed.
“When you only focused on the brightest piece, you couldn’t complete the picture because you didn’t see how all the parts connected.”
She paused, gathering her thoughts.
“Right now, you’re seeing only one bright fragment—your love for me. But family, John, is an entire picture. And Sarah is an essential part.”
“Mum, but I love Sarah!” he protested.
“You do. But do you show her?” Margaret sighed. “You know what’s most frightening for a woman? Feeling invisible. Especially to the one she loves.”
John remained silent, watching the falling snow.
“Do you think I need that cardigan?” continued his mother. “I need my son to be happy. And that’s only possible if your wife is happy. I see how much she does for our family. She cooks my favourite dishes, remembers all important dates, even chose that scarf…”
“What scarf?”
“The one she picked for me. I just saw it on the table when I came in. A traditional English one, exactly as I’d dreamed.”
John covered his eyes with his hand: “God, what an idiot I’ve been…”
“Not an idiot, dear. Just… focused on one piece and forgot about the whole picture.”
Heading back home, John paused by Liberty’s. The shop windows gleamed with holiday lights, reflecting off the fresh snow. The very silk scarf was still there, as though waiting for him.
The flat was silent. A cup of cold tea sat on the kitchen table—Sarah hadn’t even finished it.
“Sarah?” he called, peering into the bedroom.
She lay on the bed, turned away from him. Her shoulders trembled slightly.
“I’m sorry,” he said softly, sitting at the edge of the bed. “I’ve been a blind fool.”
“Blind for fifteen years?” she responded flatly, without turning.
“Yes. And each year—an idiot,” he gently touched her shoulder. “Mum mentioned something earlier… About puzzles. How I always got stuck on one bright piece and missed the whole picture.”
Sarah slowly turned around. Her eyes were red from crying.
“I’ve gotten so caught up in being the perfect son that I forgot how to be a good husband,” he pulled out the package with the scarf. “Recognize this?”
She propped herself up on one elbow, looking in disbelief at the shimmering silk.
“John, don’t. It’s not about the scarf…”
“I know,” he took her hand. “It’s about acknowledging that I haven’t seen how you care for both of us. For Mum too. That scarf you chose… It’s perfect, isn’t it?”
A tear rolled down her cheek.
“I just want to feel that I’m important to you. Not just in words, but…”
“In actions,” he finished. “And I’ll work to prove it. Not just today. Every day.”
The New Year’s Eve atmosphere filled the flat with the scents of oranges and cinnamon. Sarah, in her new silk scarf, was a whirlwind over the festive table. Margaret, elegant in a traditional English scarf, helped her with the salads.
“Sarah, you make the best ‘Olivier’ salad,” her mother-in-law beamed. “Will you teach me your secret?”
“Of course,” Sarah found herself genuinely smiling back. “I add a bit of apple vinegar to the mayonnaise. It’s my grandmother’s recipe.”
John, observing them, discreetly took a photo with his phone: two of the most important women in his life, leaning over the festive table, so different yet so dear.
“Ladies,” he cleared his throat to get their attention. “Before the clock strikes midnight, I have something to say.”
He presented two envelopes.
“Mum, this is for you,” handing over the first. “A ticket for that health spa you’ve been dreaming of. For two weeks, in the spring.”
Margaret held a hand to her chest: “John…”
“And this,” he turned to Sarah, “is for us both. A trip to Venice for our anniversary. Fifteen years is a milestone.”
Sarah froze with a napkin in hand: “But you said there’d be too much work in the spring…”
“Work can wait,” he hugged her shoulders. “I’ve let too much slip away, thinking unimportant things mattered. It’s time to catch up.”
The first New Year’s fireworks burst outside. The colourful sparks reflected in Sarah’s eyes, making them glisten with tears.
“Happy New Year, my dear ones,” Margaret softly said, looking at them. “May this year be the start of something new. Something real.”
Sarah nestled against her husband’s shoulder. The cashmere cardigan remained in the wardrobe, but it no longer mattered. More important was the warmth spreading through her heart—a warmth that signified everything had finally fallen into place.
