When the daylight has faded

Victoria and Valentine

I wince at the sound of the door creaking. A quick glance reassures me, though, that he is still asleep in his tattered old armchair.

Avoiding the floorboards that give the door a run for their money in the noise department, I pick my way to the little coffee table that came home with us from a holiday in Prague years ago.

We never used to have creaky doors or floorboards. He always saw to that, making sure our little sanctuary was perfect. Now, he needs a nap after removing the snow from the driveway, and the house's once pristine features are sagging.

"A bit like us," I chuckle, setting down the tray carrying tea and the Victoria sponge cake I baked earlier. The tea cups with the lovely rose pattern I fell in love with on a trip to Dresden about thirty years ago rattle.

John opens his eyes, looks at the cake and smiles.

"Ah, you've been baking again. I'm a lucky man."

He sits up and starts pouring the tea.

After swallowing his first bite of the sponge cake, he leans back with a happy moan. Then he grins.

"Wasn't always that lucky, though," he teases.

I know immediately what he is referring to.

"That was forty years ago, and I had never baked anything before in my life!" I protest.

"And you had to go and try out your non-skills on your unsuspecting newly-acquired husband, didn't you? I can still taste the mess now."

"And what about the homemade potato salad you served me when I broke my leg? I was hurting enough without a bad stomach, you know," I retort.

"Well, who knew making a potato salad involves more than potatoes and salad cream?"

"At least, you could have cooked the potatoes first, John," I laugh. "I still feel the starch wrapping around my teeth like clingfilm. I brushed my teeth for about 20 minutes after."

"I built you the little garden hut that you still spend hours in during the summer months, tinkering around with your flowers or your knitting needles, just to make up for nearly killing you."

"True!" A quick glance out of the window gives me a perfect view of the hut, the lace curtains in the window drawn and the roof sweating under the weight of the snow. "And the beautiful Adirondack chair for my thirtieth birthday. And the new kitchen."

I pause and lean forward.

"I love the life you built for us, John," I say, my eyes filling with tears.

"We've built it together, Marge!" he interjects.

"Shush, Johnny, and listen! You've always tried to make everything possible, give me everything I want. And I know how much you miss her, especially now that she's moved 900 miles away!"

I get up.

"You can come in now!" I shout.

The door creaks once more.

John's chin hits the floor and his eyes tear up a little.

"Daddy!"

Our daughter hugs him tightly.

"Happy Valentine's Day, John!" I whisper.