THE HANDKERCHIEF. A LOVE STORY THAT JUST LIVED ITS LIFE
“Bloody hell, Tom’s snoring again,” thought Emily irritably, shoving his arm off her shoulder and turning to face the wall. She checked her phone—quarter to two.
“No chance of sleeping now… and I’ve got work tomorrow. Sure, it’s the late shift, but still. I’m not twenty anymore—can’t pull all-nighters and power through on coffee like it’s nothing. And this isn’t some moonlit date where you stay up replaying every word…” she mused. “Now it’s just this greying, snoring lump next to me, and all I feel is annoyance.”
In the dark, she studied her husband’s sleeping face. Calm, with worry lines etched by years, shared struggles. There was tenderness in that, but tonight, doubt and resentment prickled under her skin.
“We’ve got everything—grown kids, a home, jobs. Just us now… and something’s off. What is it?” The thought gnawed at her like a blunt nail.
She rolled onto her back, staring at the ceiling.
“Tom’s changed. Doesn’t rush to the door when I get home. Doesn’t take my coat or ask about my day. Just a peck on the cheek and off he goes. And that awful slurping noise he makes with his tea—drives me mad. Then there’s the way he hides his dirty clothes, like I won’t notice. He falls asleep, and I’m the one picking up his shirts, washing, ironing… and he still grumbles in the morning: ‘Why’d you hide my favorite shirt?’”
The ache in her chest was so heavy she could barely breathe.
“He’s hurt me. Plenty. We’ve forgiven each other, made up. But his family… that’s another story! At our wedding, they only toasted him—like I didn’t exist. Then they’d count my shoes and whisper about me being wasteful… as if I wasn’t wearing hand-me-downs stitched by my mate. I’ve always worked, never leeched off him!”
Tears welled up.
“But the worst was when Lily got sick. Our girl was really poorly. We raced from hospital to hospital before they finally figured it out. I didn’t sleep for nights, terrified. And him? Silent. No hug. Not even a ‘she’ll be alright.’ Like he was in another world. I thought we’d lost each other for good…”
Then, suddenly, a memory surfaced. The beginning.
Summer. Uni. Tears. Rain. No umbrella, her dress soaked through, splashing through puddles.
“Where on earth am I supposed to get five quid?” she’d thought. “All the girls chipped in for teacher gifts, and I’ve barely two pounds in my pocket. Nan gave me her last bit of pension money. Mum refused—‘We’re not raising you to suck up,’ she said.”
So there she was, in pouring rain, heart heavy, trudging through an unfamiliar part of town. Then—like magic—a black umbrella with a wooden handle appeared over her head.
“Miss, you’re drenched. Why’re you out without one?” a voice asked.
“None of your business,” she’d snapped, not turning.
“Just wanted to offer you this. It’s clean. Here.” The voice was warm, a bit shy.
He handed her a handkerchief—white, with navy stitching. It smelled faintly of something safe, solid.
“I’m Tom,” he’d said. “And you?”
“Emily. But just Em’s fine.”
“Let’s pop into that café. I’ll get you tea. And a scone. Warm up, dry off, tell me whatever’s on your mind. Scout’s honor—I’m harmless.”
She’d said yes, oddly easy. And there, for the first time, she spilled everything to a stranger. At the door, he pressed a fiver into her hand.
“Take it. Don’t argue. You owe me nothing. Just… hate seeing you cry over money.”
A week later, she tried returning it on a park bench. He refused.
“Every bloke wants to feel needed. You let me. And if you’ll have me… I’d like to stay.”
That’s how they began.
“How’d you even know I was crying?” she’d asked later, as his wife.
“Felt it.”
Now, lying beside this greyed, snoring, familiar man, it hit her—he’d been her rock. Never complained. Never left. Shared every burden and joy. Just not always in the words she’d wanted.
“Maybe it’s me who’s changed,” she wondered.
Tom turned in his sleep, pulling her close, nuzzling her hair. And just like that, the weight lifted. Warmth spread through her, like an invisible hug.
Morning came. In the kitchen, Tom grinned.
“Sleep well, purrer?”
“Wait—was I snoring?” she gasped.
“More like gentle snores. Like our cat, Whiskers.”
“Me?!”
And then she knew: sometimes we’re so busy spotting faults in the ones we love, we miss the ones in ourselves. But happiness? It’s quiet. In a handkerchief. A scone at cafe. A silent “I’ve got you.” A kiss on the crown of your head.
You just have to see it. And remember to hold on.
