The Jacket
—”Annie, look,” Peter paused by the shop window. “See that jacket? Hooded, trimmed with fur, lined as red as a sunset. Pockets just right, and the cut’s stylish. A proper gem, that. I might’ve taken it, truth be told. My old one’s seen better days—ten years on, you know…”
He trailed off, hesitating, as if startled by his own words. Peter had never been one for finery—he wore what lasted, never chasing the latest trends. Yet here he stood, eyes alight like a boy who’d spied his heart’s desire.
Anne frowned.
—”Oh, come off it, Pete. Really? Thirteen hundred quid! We’re stretched thin as it is. The car needs mending, the MOT’s due, and that leak in the roof won’t fix itself. Five years we’ve put off redecorating. And the kids? They need help with the extension. We promised our grandson a bike, remember? Blast the jacket!”
Peter sagged. He wasn’t cross—no. He understood. It was always this way: money in hand, yet every penny already claimed by necessity. The useful. The unavoidable. The things that brought no joy but couldn’t be spared.
—”You’re sixty, love. That’s a young man’s jacket. Where’d you even wear it? Round the shops or down the allotment?”
Straight to the point, as ever. That was their way—no sugarcoating, no dancing round the truth. Though… Peter had never thrown such words her way. He held his tongue. Argued, aye. Sometimes snapped. But never anything cruel. Anne, though—she spoke plain. Not from malice, just from honesty.
They moved on. Socks, bread, a few vegetables—all practical, all ticked off the list.
Peter glanced back once more at the shop window, eyes lingering on the jacket. A sad sort of smile touched his lips before he turned away. His bald patch gleamed in the glass, wrinkles etching his brow, shadows beneath his eyes. His belly, his shoulders, the slump of his spine.
What had he been thinking, the old fool? A young man’s jacket. Bright. Not for him.
Evening fell as it always did. Supper, telly. A film—about love, about war, about a man and wife who’d weathered life’s storms side by side. Unbroken. Together.
Anne sniffled—quiet, furtive—wiping her cheek with her apron. Peter looked away, clearing his throat.
—”Must be catching a chill. Shouldn’t have watched that before bed. You’ll be up half the night now—your blood pressure.”
—”Market in the morning. They promised tomatoes. Need potting for the greenhouse.”
—”I’ll rise early, check the barrels. Fetch water while it’s quiet. Day off, after all.”
He pulled her close. Gentle. Unforced. Just sitting nearer, arm round her shoulders. She leaned into him. They stayed like that long after the credits rolled, the telly flickering with grim headlines, their gazes fixed on nothing. Silent. Lost in thought.
Come morning, Peter left for the allotment.
Anne visited their daughter—dropping off jam and fresh carrots for the little one. Stopped by the chemist’s after. On the bus home, she clutched a bag tight, her mind made up. Simple. At last.
Back home, she peeled potatoes for dinner—mash and bangers, Peter’s favourite. Waited till he returned, dirt-streaked and weary but content.
—”Here. For you,” she said, handing him a large bag. “Just… because. The jacket.”
Peter froze. Disbelieving.
—”Annie? What’s this?”
—”Your old one’s had its day. This one’s proper. Warm. And you’re not old. Not to me. You’re handsome, you are. That jacket’ll suit you.”
She meant to say more. Couldn’t. Tears blurred her vision. Funny, that—life good as gold, yet the tears came all the same.
Peter held her, hand rubbing slow circles on her back.
—”What’s got into you, love?”
—”Nothing. Everything’s fine, Pete. Just… you’re here. That’s all that matters.”
And it was true. Life was good.
Sometimes we weep not from sorrow, but because happiness stands plain before us—near, and fleeting. So we weep. Quietly. Gratefully.
For the ones we hold close. For care. For warmth. For the quiet moments shared without a word.
The socks may be threadbare. The hair gone grey. But the love remains.
And the jacket fits just fine.
