My husband doesn’t read anything I write. Occasionally he’ll skim a flash fiction (500 words) and invariably he’ll say, “That was good. I liked it.”
Yesterday, he got back from a week-long business trip to America. All his colleagues spent a big part of the trip shopping, which included gifts for their wives. They raided the Florida outlet malls for Coach shoes and handbags and Tiffany bracelets. My husband came back with an iPad mini for one of my children, a smart HP laptop for the other. They’d been saving their birthday and Christmas money which went a lot further on the other side of the pond. He also bought himself a pair of shoes. There was nothing in his suitcase for me except his dirty washing.
Which is absolutely, perfectly fine.
You see, having lived in America for 8 years and returning to the UK only a year and a half ago, I have all the shoes and bags I need for at least the next ten years. I don’t wear jewellery except a pair of stud earrings. I have every material thing I need. If I spend money on anything, it’s on books, writing magazines and a few pounds here and there to go to my writers’ group and related field trips.
My husband gives me, and has done ever since I asked for it, the gift of time. He has always given me his unconditional love and faith. Those are the greatest gifts I could ever have.
September last year, I decided to stop procrastinating and to try writing with the end goal of it becoming a permanent and full-time career. My husband was all for it.
He goes to work and earns the bacon. I mind the fort, cook the bacon and spend every other spare minute reading, writing or researching. In the last five months I’ve bought (some were free) 50 titles (some novels/novellas, some shorts) from Amazon alone. With no more guarantee of my success than my passion and drive and determination, my husband has wholeheartedly said, “Go for it. As long as we can afford it, as long as you want to do it. Maybe I’ll be able to retire on your bestseller.”
I couldn’t ask for any more than that.
He wasn’t around for Valentine’s Day, but when I got home from my writers’ group meeting on Friday this was on the doorstep:
And these were inside: