I thought you were respectable, yet you live in such poverty, the fiancé said, walking away five minutes before meeting the parents.
Emily, look at this marvel! Martha clutched a gaudy tablecloth covered in huge, unnaturally bright poppies. Itll be perfect on our kitchen table. A feast, not just a table!
Her daughter, Cressida, a twentysevenyearold nurse at the local childrens clinic, forced a weary smile.
Mum, its plastic. And it screams colour Lets get something plain, like linen. White or beige.
Linen! Martha waved her hands. Did you see the price of that fancy linen? I found this one at a market clearance. Practical, pretty, and cheap! A quick wipe and its spotless.
Is that really beautiful, Mum? It looks tasteless.
Oh, Cressida, happiness isnt in tablecloths, Martha sighed, yet she tucked the plastic cloth under the counter. If only we were healthy, peace would fill the house. All right, lets go, my feet are buzzing.
They strolled through the bustling Borough Market, Cressida watching her mothera tiny, wiry woman in an old but freshly ironed coat. She felt exhausted by the endless scrimping, by the constant mantra of cheap and practical. Her mother worked oneandahalf shifts, taking night duties so that they could keep the modest twobed flat on the edge of Manchester afloat. She never complained; she simply dreamed. She imagined the day she could buy her mother not only the expensive medicines but also a beautiful linen tablecloth, just because.
Cressidas future prince, Edward, had appeared in a café after a grueling night shift. He sat at the next tabletall, welldressed, with a confident smile and an expensive watch glinting on his wrist. He approached her.
Excuse me, miss, but your eyes look sad. May I offer you a pastry? A little sweetness might lift your spirits.
He was charming, courteous, and his compliments were precise, never crude. He instantly recognised her profession. You have kind hands, he said. Thats a rarity these days.
Edward worked for a large construction firm in a senior role. He drove her around in his polished foreign car to restaurants shed never seen, gave her flowers that cost half her weekly wage, and regaled her with stories of travel and future plans. Cressida listened, breath held, feeling as though shed stepped into a fairy tale.
He told her he was tired of predatory, paintedup women who only chased his wallet. In Cressida, hed found what hed been searching forpurity, sincerity, integrity.
Youre genuine, he whispered, kissing her hand. Untarnished. I thought such people no longer existed.
The only thing that slightly unsettled Cressida was that he never tried to visit her flat. Their meetings were always in the town centre, or he would pick her up at the bus stop near her home.
I dont want to trouble you, and its getting late, I shouldnt wake your mother, he would say.
Cressida felt a twinge of shame about her shabby, peelingpaint stairwell and modest flat. She wanted him to see her as a princess, not a shabby mess.
Six months later, he proposed. It felt like a dream: an evening at an upscale restaurant, candles flickering. He knelt, presenting a velvet box with a glittering stone.
Cressida, will you be my wife? I want to wake up with you each morning, to have you as the lady of my home.
She said yes, tears of joy spilling as she clutched the box. The story continued.
They arranged for Edward to meet Martha first, then for both families to meet. The meeting day was set for Saturday. Cressida and her mother prepared as if it were the most important event of their lives. They scrubbed their tiny flat for three days. Martha retrieved a vintage set of china she had saved for a special occasion. Cressida spent her last cash on that very linen clothwhite, crisp.
Mother, it looks gorgeous! she exclaimed, laying it on the table. Just like in a restaurant!
Lets hope your groom appreciates it, Martha sighed, putting an apple pie in the oven. Im nervous, Cressida. Hes such a solid man, and were simple folk.
He loves me, not our flat! He loves me for who I am!
Edward was due at five. At 4:45, Cressida stood by the window, scanning the street for his car. She wore her best dress, fixing her hair repeatedly.
There he is! she shouted, spotting a familiar silver car easing into the driveway.
She rushed to the landing, heart pounding as though it might leap from her chest. Edward stepped out, immaculate in a suit, clutching an enormous bouquet of roseslike a movie star.
He saw her, smiled brilliantly, and headed toward the flat. Then Cressida noticed his expression shift. The smile faded, replaced by a scornful sneer. He entered the dim hallway, smelling of damp and old cats, glancing at the cracked plaster, the flickering bulb, the scrawled lift doors.
With each step up the stairs his face grew darker. Cressida, waiting on her thirdfloor landing, felt her excitement melt into dread. He stopped a metre away, not looking at her dress or her bright eyes, but peering past her into the modest, tidy hallway. He saw the aged coat rack, the worn welcome mat. His gaze was cold as ice.
Cressida, come in, weve been expecting you! she stammered, trying to smile.
He stared at the floor as if it were a filthy shoe. Is this where you live? he asked, his voice thin with contempt.
Yes here
He gave a bitter chuckle, glanced at his expensive suit, then back at the shabby corridor.
Right, he said, extending the bouquet mechanically, as if handing over something unwanted.
I thought you were respectable, yet you live in such poverty, he said calmly, stating a fact as if it were ordinary. Then he turned and walked down the stairs without looking back.
Cressida stood, clutching the gaudy roses, unable to move. She heard his footsteps recede, the door slam, the engine start, and then silence.
From the kitchen, her mother emerged, wiping her hands on an apron.
Well, dear? Wheres the groom? The pies ready
Cressidas face was as pale as the wall, the roses trembling in her hands. Martha silently took the flowers, grasped her daughters cold hand, and led her into the sitting room.
Sit down, love.
Cressida sank onto the sofa, tears not yet falling, a black void inside her.
He hes gone, Mum.
I see, Martha whispered, sitting beside her, wrapping an arm around Cressidas shoulders. He said were poor.
She held her tighter.
You silly thing. What a blessing, Cressida.
What blessing? Cressida whispered. He abandoned me. He humiliated me.
The blessing is that it happened now, not in ten years, her mother replied firmly. The good Lord has saved you from that mana hollow shell in a fancy wrapper. Do you think he loved you? He only knows how to consume. He didnt see you, only the image he imagined: a pure, poor girl he could rescue. When he realised poverty wasnt a picturebook scene but an old stairwell and a threadbare mat, he fled. Thank God, the rubbish carried itself out.
Martha stroked Cressidas hair, speaking simple, wise words about true wealth not being measured in money, about integrity not gauged by a suits price, about love that fears neither poverty nor cracked walls.
Cry, my dear, let the sorrow flow. Then youll wash up, stand tall, and live on. Youll meet another man, a real one, who will love your soul, not your image. He wont care whether your tablecloth is linen or plasticonly that youre by his side.
Cressida wept, long and bitter, pressed against her mothers shoulder. She mourned not just the man, but the shattered fairy tale, her naïve faith in miracles.
When the tears dwindled, she rose, approached the table set for a celebration that never happened, and ran her hand over the linen cloth.
The pie must be cold by now, she said.
Never mind, her mother smiled. Well put the kettle on and have tea. Just the two of us. Today is our own little celebrationa celebration of freedom.
They sat down, sipping tea with apple pie, the white linen spread before them. It was the most delicious pie and the warmest evening Cressida had ever known.
The story reminds us that glittering gold often masks emptiness, and true value lies in honesty, humility, and the love that looks beyond appearances.
