I thought you were respectable, yet you live in such squalor, the fiancé snapped and left five minutes before meeting the parents.
Emily, look at this beauty! exclaimed Mrs. Mabel Hughes, brandishing a gaudy tablecloth covered in huge, unnaturally bright poppies. Itll be perfect on our kitchen table. Itll make a celebration, not just a meal!
Emily, a twentysevenyearold nurse at the local childrens clinic, managed a weary smile.
Mother, its plastic. And its shouting colours Lets get something simple, a linen one. White or beige.
Linen, of course! her mother flapped her hands. Did you see the price of that fancy linen? I found this at a market discount. Practical, pretty and cheap! A quick wipe and its spotless.
Is that really beautiful, Mother? It looks tasteless.
Oh, Emily, happiness isnt found in tablecloths, sighed Mrs. Hughes, though she tucked the plastic cloth under the counter. If we were healthy, the house would be peaceful. Anyway, lets go, my legs are aching.
They walked through the bustling Brixton Market, and Emily watched her mother a small, wiry woman in a wellpressed, though worn, coat. She was exhausted by endless pennypinching, the constant mantra of cheap and practical. Emily worked oneandahalf shifts, took night duties, just to keep them afloat in their tiny twobedroom flat on the outskirts of London. She never complained; she simply dreamed. She dreamed of a day when she could buy her mother not only expensive medicine but also a lovely linen tablecloth, just because.
Shed met her future prince, Edward Finch, in a café after a long night shift, when shed stopped for a coffee. He sat at the next table tall, welldressed, with a confident smile and an expensive watch glinting on his wrist. He rose to speak to her.
Excuse me, miss, but your eyes look sad. May I treat you to a pastry? A little sweetness might help.
He was charming and courteous, offering compliments that were precise, not lewd. He instantly recognised she was a nurse. Your hands are kind, he said. Thats rare these days.
Edward worked for a large construction firm in a senior role. He drove her around in his polished foreign car to restaurants shed never visited, gave her flowers that cost half her salary, and regaled her with stories of travels and future plans. Emily listened, breath held, feeling as if she were living a fairy tale.
He told her he was tired of predatory, gaudy women who chased his wallet. In Emily he found what hed been searching for purity, sincerity, decency.
Youre genuine, he murmured, kissing her hand. Unspoiled. I thought people like you no longer existed.
The only thing that unsettled Emily was that he never tried to visit her flat. They always met downtown, or he collected her at a bus stop near her house.
I dont want to inconvenience you, and its late enough to wake your mother, he would say.
Emily felt a pang of shame about the peeling paint in their stairwell and the modest décor of their flat. She wanted him to see a princess, not a shabby girl.
Six months later he proposed. It felt like a dream. An evening in an upscale restaurant, candles flickering. He knelt, presenting a velvet box with a sparkling stone.
Emily, I want you to be my wife. I want to wake up beside you every morning. I want you to keep house with me.
She accepted, tears of joy spilling as she clutched the box. The story seemed to continue.
They decided Edward would first meet Emilys mother, then they would visit his parents together. The meeting day was set for Saturday. Emily and Mrs. Hughes prepared as if for the most important event of their lives. For three days they scrubbed their tiny flat. Mother hauled out a heirloom china set shed saved for a special occasion. Emily spent her last £20 on the very linen tablecloth shed longed for crisp, white, starchfinished.
Mother, look how lovely it is! she exulted, laying it on the table. Just like in a restaurant!
Lets hope your fiancé appreciates it, sighed Mrs. Hughes, sliding an apple crumble into the oven. Im nervous, dear. Hes such a respectable man, and were simple folk.
Mother, he loves me, not our flat! He loves me for who I am!
Edward was due at five. By a quarter to five Emily stood by the window, scanning for his car. She wore her best dress, adjusting her hair repeatedly.
Hes coming! she shouted, spotting the familiar silver sedan easing into their driveway.
She bolted onto the landing to greet him. Her heart hammered as if it might leap from her chest. Edward stepped out, immaculate in a suit, clutching a massive bouquet of roses, looking like a film star.
He saw her, flashed his dazzling smile, and headed toward the entrance. At that moment Emily noticed his expression change. The smile faded, replaced by a disdainful sneer. He entered the dim, damp, catsmelling stairwell, eyeing the peeling plaster, the dim bulb, the scrawled lift doors.
He climbed the stairs, his face growing darker with each step. Emily stood on the thirdfloor landing, her excitement turning to icy terror. He stared at the shabby door of the neighbour next door, at the crack in the wall.
He stopped a metre away, not looking at Emily, not at her dress, not at her bright eyes. He peered into their modest, though tidy, hallway, noting the old coat rack and the worn rug at the threshold. His gaze was cold as ice.
Emily, come in, weve been expecting you! she stammered, forcing a smile.
He looked at her as one might look at street dirt stuck to a costly shoe.
Do you really live here? he asked quietly, his tone dripping with contempt.
Yes here
He gave a bitter grin, glancing at his expensive suit, his polished shoes, then back at the shabby corridor.
Right, he said, extending the bouquet mechanically, as if handing over something useless.
I thought you were respectable, yet you live in such poverty, he said matteroffactly, then turned and descended the stairs without a backward glance.
Emily stood, clutching the extravagant bouquet, frozen. She heard his footsteps fade, the door thud, the engine rev, then silence.
From the kitchen, her mother emerged, wiping her hands on an apron.
Well, Emily? Wheres the fiancé? The crumbles ready
Emilys face was as blank as a wall, the roses heavy in her hands, and she understood everything. Her mother quietly took the flowers, grasped Emilys icy hand, and led her to the sitting room.
Sit down, love.
Emily sank onto the sofa. She didnt cry. No tears fell, only a black void inside.
He he left, Mother.
I see, murmured Mrs. Hughes, sitting beside her, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. He said were poor.
She held Emily tighter.
Darling, think of the blessing that this happened now, not ten years later, her mother said firmly. Its a mercy that God spared you from that man. He was empty, a pretty wrapper with nothing inside. Did you think he loved you? He only knew how to consume. He never saw you; he saw the fantasy he invented a pure, needy girl he could rescue. When he realised poverty wasnt a storybook picture but a cracked stairwell and a scuffed mat, he fled. Thank God. Trash removes itself.
She stroked Emilys hair, speaking simply and wisely about wealth not being measured in money, about honour not depending on a suits price, about true love fearing neither poverty nor shabby walls.
Cry, dear, let the grief flow. Then youll rise, wash your face, and go on. Youll meet another man, a real one, who loves your soul, not your image. He wont mind whether your tablecloth is linen or plastic, as long as youre by his side.
Emily finally wept, long and bitter, pressing her face into her mothers shoulder. She mourned not the man, but the shattered fairy tale and her naïve hope.
When the tears ceased, she approached the table set for a celebration that never happened. She ran her hand over the white linen cloth.
The crumble must be cold by now, she said.
Never mind, her mother replied with a smile. Well put the kettle on and have tea together. Just the two of us. Today is a celebration a celebration of freedom.
They sat down, sipping tea with apple crumble, the table covered in the crisp white linen. It was the most delicious pastry and the warmest evening Emily had ever known.
The lesson was clear: true worth lies not in glittering façades or costly gifts, but in honesty, humility, and the love that endures when the tablecloth is plain.
