Emma married late, at twenty-five. Her husband wasnt exactly a catch, but neither was he the sort to make her friends green with envy. Did she love him? She wasnt even sure herself. Shed grown used to him. They had a son, Tommy, a bright and serious boywhat more could she want? Not that Emma dared to want much. Shed accepted that her Henry was a dull, unremarkable man, tight with money to boot. Eventually, she stopped noticing. She worked at the local primary school, looked after Tommythat was her life. Yet shed once been a beauty, turning heads wherever she went! Golden curls framed her delicate face, her figure the envy of many. A proper English rose, clever and lovely. A woman like that couldve married a prince.
Emmas family never took to Henry, sniggering at him behind his back. He never fit innever joined their lively conversations, never got their jokes, always rushing her home. “Its late, Emma. Up early tomorrow!” Eventually, they stopped inviting the couple altogether. They lived as if on the outskirts of life itself.
Old age crept in, grey and joyless. What had Emma ever seen of the world? Nothing. Their only holidays were at Henrys factorys dreary seaside lodgethree meals a day, tacky evening dances they never attended. “Whats the point?” Henry would say. “Thats for folks looking to flirt. Not us, eh, love?” Emma would nod, obedient.
Fashionable clothes were out of the question. “Too pricey!” Henry insisted. “Theres decent stuff at the market, half the cost, imported from Spain.” Emma sighed but never argued.
Then disaster struck. Henrys memory began to fail. He wasnt even that old, looked better than he had in his youthyet there it was. The doctors verdict was grim: early dementia after multiple strokes. Soon, Henry barely recognised their son or grandchildren. “Who are these kids?” hed ask.
“Darling,” Emma would soothe him, as if speaking to a child, “thats Danny and Alfie, our grandsons. And thats Tommy, our boy.”
“Why didnt you tell me they were coming?” Henry would exclaim, baffled. Minutes later, hed ask again, “Whos visiting today?”
But he always knew *her*. How could he not, when she cared for him like an infant? Without Emma, hed have wandered out in his underwear. Now, with full control of the money, she couldve splurged on herselfyet she didnt. Not out of thrift, but because shed lost the habit. She walked past boutique windows without a glance, instead buying Henry fine treats. He trailed after her like a lost lamb, begging her not to leave him alone. “Dont take long,” hed plead, terrified shed abandon him. Once, he even whispered, “I love you, Emma. Youre my whole world. Id be lost without you.”
Words shed never heard before. They say trouble brings claritybut what use was clarity now? Emma locked herself in the bedroom and wept. Then she dried her tears, so Henry wouldnt see, and carried on.
This story was told to me by my neighbour, a graceful woman who, despite the years, still held a quiet beauty. There wasnt a trace of self-pity in her voice. Shyly, she added, “I wrote Henry a little poem. Would you like to hear? *My faithful friend, youre by my side, though time has worn your minds sharp tide. You mix the seasons, lose your wayyet still, I pray, remember me each day.*”
I hugged her tight, silently wishing her strength and patience. For love, in the end, is not just passionbut the quiet courage to stay.
