Nadine adjusted the white linen tablecloth on the kitchen table, her fingers trembling from exhaustion and anticipation. Today marked her and Victor’s twenty-fifth wedding anniversary—silver—and she’d spent the day preparing a special dinner. A honey-glazed duck with apples simmered on the stove, rosemary-roasted potatoes baked in the oven, and pomegranate seeds gleamed on the cutting board—Victor adored their tartness. The kitchen smelled of spices, vanilla from the pear tart, and the faint wisp of smoke from three candles in brass holders. A bottle of red wine—the same Cabernet they’d toasted with at their wedding—stood on the table. Nadine had ordered it specially from the wine shop. She’d put on a navy-blue dress with a lace collar, let down her usually pinned-up hair, and even swiped on crimson lipstick, something she hadn’t done in years.
She glanced at the pendulum clock above the fridge—8:15. Victor had promised to be home by seven. Nadine dialed his number, but the automated voice coldly informed her he was unavailable. Her chest tightened, but she brushed the worry aside, stirring the creamy sauce. «Stuck at the factory,» she told herself, adjusting the rose bouquet in its vase.
The door slammed, and in burst Molly, their twenty-three-year-old daughter, visiting for the weekend from the neighbouring town where she worked as a designer. Her auburn curls were wind-tousled, and she carried a canvas tote and a bunch of yellow chrysanthemums.
«Mum, I’m here!» Molly called, kicking off her trainers and nearly dropping the bag. «Blimey, look at this spread! Is it your anniversary?»
Nadine smiled, taking the flowers and inhaling their earthy scent.
«Twenty-five years. Dad said he’d be here by seven, but he’s probably swamped.»
Molly snorted, hanging her leather jacket on the hook.
«Classic Dad. Always at that factory. Need help with anything?»
«Set out the wine and glasses,» Nadine said, but her voice wavered. She checked the clock again—8:30. The duck was cooling, the sauce thickening, and the candles dripped wax onto the tablecloth.
By nine, Nadine sat at the table, fidgeting with a napkin embroidered with initials—a wedding gift from her late aunt. Molly, across from her, scrolled through her phone, trying to lighten the heavy silence.
«Mum, maybe call him again?» she suggested, sipping tea from her cat-printed mug.
Nadine shook her head, lips pressed thin.
«Won’t make a difference, Molly. He forgot. Again.»
Molly frowned, setting her phone aside.
«Don’t jump to conclusions. He’s probably swamped. You know how it is—factory manager, always some crisis. He called yesterday saying a machine broke down.»
Nadine clenched the napkin until her knuckles whitened.
«Swamped? Molly, it’s our anniversary! I’ve been cooking all day, dressed up, and he can’t even call?»
The door creaked, and Victor walked in. His grey jacket was rumpled, hair disheveled, shadows under his eyes. He carried a worn briefcase but no flowers, no smile.
«Evening,» he muttered, dropping the briefcase by the wall. «What’s all this? Some occasion?»
Nadine froze, her eyes widening as if struck.
«Some occasion? Victor, it’s our twenty-fifth anniversary!»
Victor paled, the briefcase nearly slipping from his grip.
«Bloody hell, Nadine… I… forgot. The factory’s a mess—reports, the broken machine—»
Nadine stood, her voice quivering like a plucked string.
«Forgot? I cooked all day, lit candles! And you couldn’t care less!»
Victor tossed his jacket on a chair, scowling.
«Couldn’t care less? I’m working my fingers to the bone for us! And you start a row over dinner!»
Molly coughed, interrupting.
«Oi, enough. Dad, sit down, eat. Mum, it wasn’t on purpose.»
But Nadine turned to her, eyes blazing.
«Not on purpose? Molly, it’s always like this! I give everything to this family, and he acts like it’s nothing!»
Victor slammed his palm on the table, glasses rattling.
«Nothing? I’m at the factory by six every morning, Nadine! And you’re never happy, always demanding more!»
The celebratory dinner had become a battleground, every plate a landmine waiting to explode.
Morning brought a silence as thick as the November fog outside. Nadine brewed coffee, avoiding Victor’s gaze. He sat flipping through the local paper, fingers nervously creasing the corners. Molly, sensing the tension, buttered toast with forced cheer.
«Mum, that duck last night was brilliant,» she said between bites. «Shall we finish it? I’ll make a salad.»
Nadine grunted, back turned at the stove.
«Help yourself. I’m not hungry.»
Victor set the paper down, weary.
«Nadine, enough sulking. I messed up, forgot. But you went straight for the jugular.»
Nadine whirled, her spoon clinking against the mug.
«The jugular? Victor, I dressed up, bought that wine! And you waltzed in like it was any other night! Do we even matter to you?»
Victor stood, voice rising.
«Matter? I’ve slaved at that factory for twenty years for us! And you nitpick—everything I do is wrong! I’m only human, Nadine!»
Molly threw up her hands, curls bouncing.
«Stop! You’re acting like kids. Mum, Dad’s shattered—look at him. Dad, Mum’s hurt—she put in effort. Just talk, yeah?»
But Nadine shook her head, eyes glistening.
«Talk? Molly, you always take his side. What about me? Cooking, cleaning, sacrificing—and for what?»
Molly’s face hardened.
«Mum, don’t guilt-trip. You do overdo it sometimes. Dad’s not a robot. And I’m not on his side—I just see he’s knackered!»
Nadine stiffened, cheeks flushing.
«Overdo it? Seriously, Molly? I’ve given you everything—stayed up when you were ill, drove you to clubs! And now you side with him?»
Victor rubbed his temples, sighing.
«Nadine, I don’t want fights. But you expect perfection. And I… I’m scared of letting you down. Of your disappointment.»
Nadine stared at him, anger melting into hurt. She remembered their wedding day, dancing in the rain as Victor whispered he’d give her the stars. Back then, anything seemed possible. Now they were arguing over cold duck.
That afternoon, Nadine distracted herself at the supermarket. The aisles of spices and tins soothed her like an old ritual. She reached for rice but froze at the sight of Cabernet—the same wine from last night. Her chest ached. She recalled their first anniversary, barely scraping by, when Victor gifted her a heart-shaped pendant and she’d baked a lopsided cake, laughing until they cried in their first rented flat.
In the queue, she bumped into Brenda, their gossipy neighbour with a booming laugh.
«Nadine, why the long face? Wasn’t it your anniversary? Did you celebrate?»
Nadine sighed, fiddling with the rice bag.
«We did. Victor forgot. Showed up at nine, didn’t even call.»
Brenda shook her head, earrings jingling.
«Men, eh? My Dave used to forget till I stuck a calendar to his forehead. But your Victor’s a good one, love. Just snowed under. Talk to him—without shouting.»
Nadine nodded, but the ache lingered. She didn’t just want to talk—she wanted to be heard.
Meanwhile, Victor sat in his factory office, the air thick with machine oil and vending-machine coffee. His mate Geoff, a grizzled mechanic with a constant fag, flipped through a magazine.
«Vic, why the long face? Anniversary, wasn’t it? How’d it go?»
Victor sighed, eyeing the stack of reports.
«Not great. Forgot. Nadine had this whole dinner… I was at the hospital—blood pressure spiked. Didn’t tell her, didn’t want to worry her. Now she’s furious.»
Geoff huffed.
«Christ, mate. Your Nadine’s a gem, and you pull this? Tell her the truth. She’ll understand.»
Victor nodded, but the weight in his chest stayed. He feared not just her anger, but her seeing him as a failure—again.
That evening, Molly staged a truce. She reheated the duck, tossed a new avocado salad, dug out an old photo album, and even lit fresh candles from her mum’s stash. But as they sat down, the silence felt leaden.
«Right,» Molly said, raising her juice glass. «To youThey clinked glasses, the warmth of shared memories slowly melting away the hurt, and for the first time in years, they laughed—not just as a family, but as friends who had weathered the storm and found their way back.