A Dream in Blue Wrapping
Margaret stands at her kitchen window, shopping list crumpled in her hand, watching fat snowflakes drift lazily through the glass. They settle thickly on the sill, just like the Decembers from her childhood, before winters became grey and mild. This year, snow has been bountiful, smoothing the rooftops and quieting the city after dusk.
“Meg? Why have you stopped still?” Johns voice floats in from the living room, where hes unpacking boxes of Christmas decorations. Look, I found the Father Christmas! Remember? The one we bought at the market in ’93.
Margaret doesnt turn. I see, I see. John, were out of milk. And we could do with a fresh loaf too. Will you nip down to The Basket for me?
Now? Its nearly seven, dark as pitch,” he protests with a touch of petulance. “I thought wed hang the fairy lights together.
She glances back. John is sitting cross-legged amid a sea of glass baubles, snowy hair in a tangle, glasses sliding down his nose. In his hands is the faded Father Christmas, his face shining with boyish delighta sight that tugs somewhere deep in Margaret.
Alright, Ill pop down myself, she softens. Just get the tree up, true? Its the 29th already, John. Guestsll be here day after tomorrow and our decorations are still in boxes.
I will, I will. He waves his hand. You know, Meg, I saw an advert on the bus. The new Snowphone. The camera is unrealcan take pictures brighter than noon, even at night. And the storage! Three hundred and twelve gigabytes. You could fit every grandchilds snap on it and then some.
Margaret pauses midway in zipping up her coat. Three hundred and twelve? And what does that cost, this miracle phone?
John scratches his head. Well, about seven hundred. Maybe a touch more. But imagine the photos!
Seven hundred pounds, she repeats slowly. John, your phones not even a year old. Its perfectly fine.
It is, he agrees, avoiding her eyes, Just thinking aloud. It seemed nifty, thats all.
She zips up to her chin, grabs her knitted hat from the shelf. A lot of things seem nifty, she says quietly, Doesnt mean we buy them all.
Im not saying we have to buy it, John mutters, bruised, finally meeting her gaze, Can’t a man have a little dream?
Dreams are free, John, she slides her hands into her gloves. But yours and mine are different, thats all. I dream of a sofa that wont ruin my back. Or chipping in for the kids after-school clubs. You dream of new gadgets.
John goes silent, turning back to the boxes.
Margaret lingers a second, peering at her husbands stooped back, then sighs and heads out into the wintry night.
Beneath her boots, the snow squeaks, an oddly soothing sound. She takes her time, wary of black ice in the lamplight. The Basket is only two streets away, but the walk feels twice as long in the darkness and after a day of preparations.
Shes been at it since morning: scrubbing windows (No one notices but you, John always says), pressing a fresh cloth for the table, taste-testing salads, fine-tuning the last shopping list. It grew substantial: three kilos of beef, potatoes, carrots, beetroot, two dozen eggs, mayo, roast ham for the salad, tinned peas, pickled gherkins, hard cheddar, melting cheese for the herring bake, apples, clementines…
The Basket buzzes with festive chaos. Margaret heaves a trolley and methodically ticks off her list, weaving through the crowds. At the meat counter, she bumps into her neighbour, Susan.
Meg! Susan beams. Last bits for you too?
Finishing up, yes. Margaret returns her smile. All set over your way?
Almost. Susan grimaces. Just salads leftplanning to cheat and buy them for once. The prices, though! The shops Oliver salad is, what, £10.50 a kilo now. Used to be half that.
Inflation. Margaret sighs. I make mine; works out cheaper.
Well, youre a marvel. Susan shakes her head. Im spoiling myself for onceordering in. Health over hassle, I say. Are you having family?
Yes, the kids and grandkids are coming. Johns friends are popping by too, Mike and Tania.
Full house, then. No time for feet-up for you. Does John pull his weight?
Margaret hesitates, then smiles. He helpsin his own way.
Susan grins knowingly, but doesnt press. They part as Margaret moves on, trolley growing heavier. She mentally adds up the cost and winces. Every holidays a blow to the wallet, but what can you do? New Years is family. Children wait all year…
At the chocolate shelf, she picks up a bar shes wanted to tryraspberry and almondbut on seeing the price, sighs and swaps it for plain milk. Three times cheaper.
At the tills, the final figure makes her blink, but she pays with her card and shoulders the bags out into the night.
Going home is harderthe bag handles cut her fingers, snow whips at her cheeks and collar. Halfway, she stops, rests her bags on a bench to catch her breath. Her back aches. Her legs throb. Shes sixty-one, and her body reminds her every step.
She looks up at their windows. There, fifth floor, the lights are on. Johns surely put up the tree, probably sat with a cup of tea scrolling through his perfectly adequate phone. Margaret pictures him grinning, clutching that shiny new Snowphone, and feels a confusing mix of fondness and irritation.
Thirty-eight years together. They met at the factory where she worked in accounts, he was an engineer. He seemed a princetall, wild-haired, dreamy-eyed. He read her poetry, took her to concerts, brought flowers. Then came their daughteranother life, sleepless nights and stretched pennies. John dreamed, Margaret kept the home going. That was her role, and she accepted it without complaint. But in these moments, out in the cold with heavy bags, she wonders: where are his dreams about her?
Meg! Why are you frozen out there? John calls from their balcony, making her jump. He leans out. Can I help?
Im coming! she shouts, hauling up her bags. Her arms are numb but she trudges on.
Their flat is warm and pine-scented. John has put up the treetall and bushy, though the ornaments are still in a heap. The fairy lights are neatly coiled alongside.
Well done, Margaret says, kicking off snowy boots. What about the baubles?
Thought wed hang them together, John says, taking her shopping to the kitchen. How about tea?
Please. She hangs up her coat to dry. John, did your bonus come through yet?
He freezes at the kettle. It didtwo days ago. Why?
Just thinking. Margaret unpacks the groceries. Maybe put some aside? For a sofa, perhaps. Or the grandchildrens birthdays.
Of course, John nods quickly, Already done it. Halfs in an envelope, up on the shelf.
Half? So what did you get in total?
Forty thousand, he says at last, an odd look in his eyes. I tucked away twentyrest goes on the usual Christmas madness.
Margaret nods and returns to her unpacking. Twenty thousand on the holiday, twenty saved. It makes sense. She tries to shake the thought of the seven hundred for the phone.
The evening passes quietly. They hang decorations, John unwinds the fairy lights, coaxing the tree into a kaleidoscope of colour. Margaret sits on the sofa with her tea, watching as he fusses with the star on top.
A bit crooked, she remarks.
Its fine, he grumbles. Youre too picky.
Lean it left, see? Just
Meg, please, Ive been at this an hour. If its a bit off, who cares?
She bites her tongue. John steps down, steps back, half-pleased. Looks good, right?
It really does, she agrees.
He joins her on the sofa, arm along her shoulders. They sit in silence, watching the lights blink on the tree while snow falls outside, the city brimming with anticipation. Margaret closes her eyes, nestles into his side. Maybe shes too sharp. Maybe its enoughwarm home, healthy family, her husband beside her…
Meg, John whispers, Are you awake?
I am.
I had a thoughtabout presents this year. Shall we do something simple? Something just…symbolic?
Margaret opens her eyes. I already bought yours, she answers carefully. I think youll like it.
You did? He looks lost. I thought we said we wouldnt spend.
No, John, you made that up. We never agreed. And really, whats Christmas without gifts?
Right, of course. He rubs his forehead. Ill buy you something tomorrow.
Tomorrows the thirtieth, she reminds him. Shops will be packed.
Ill manage, he says, uncertainty in his voice.
She gathers the mugs and goes to the kitchen, leaving him by the tree. She scrubs in silence, knowing hell leave it till the last minute, and shell end up with a box of chocolates from the corner shop. As usual.
The real sting isnt in the giftshe expects nothing expensivebut in the lack of thought. She wishes hed remember what she actually likes, show a little care. Margaret catches her reflection in the window: tired, face blurred, grey at the temples she stubbornly refuses to dye. When did she arrive at this?
How much longer in there? John calls. Lets get to bed, tomorrowll be full-on.
Coming, she replies, flicking off the light.
The next morning, Margaret wakes before her alarm. The flat is hushedonly distant rumble of cars outside. John sleeps, sprawled diagonally, gently snoring. Margaret slips out quietly, wraps herself in dressing gown, heads for the kitchen.
Today will be tough. Finish the salads, roast the beef, lay the table. By evening, their daughter and son-in-law will arrive with the grandchildren, Ruby and Max. Margaret is looking forward to it, though with some trepidation. Ten-year-old Max is withdrawn, always glued to his tablet; eight-year-old Ruby whinges and refuses to eat. Their daughter Ellen frets she cant cope, but Margaret thinks Ellen simply works too much, too fast…
She puts the kettle on and takes cooked beetroot from the fridge. She starts with the herring bakeJohns favourite. Layer after layer, her hands working on autopilot.
John stumbles in around nine, rumpled and drowsy.
Morning, he kisses her hair. Early start?
Got loads to do, she replies, slicing potatoes. Sit down, Ill fix you an omelette.
Dont fusstoasts fine. He butters some bread and sits, nose instantly in his phone. Margaret glances, then carries on with her saladher working, him scrolling, as usual.
John, she says after a while, Are you going to pick up my present today?
Hm? Of course I will. After lunch.
Dont forget. I know what youre like.
I wont, he promises, but hes already lost in the screen again.
Margaret stays silent. Deep down, she knows hell put it off, make excuses about queues and running late. And she wont complainits easier to accept than to argue, especially at Christmas.
The day speeds by. Margaret makes Oliver salad, arranges a meat platter, roasts chicken with potatoes. John hovers between rooms with vague promises:
Ill go soon, just watching this.
Youve an hour left before the shops close!
Ill be quick.
He leaves at four, the door slamming behind him. Margaret finds herself alone with the cluttered kitchen. Her feet ache, the air thick with fried smells and mayonnaise, but shes nearly done. She surveys the tablespread with a festive cloth, plates and glasses shining, the tree glowing. The grandkids presents are wrapped in a neat pile, along with a large box in blue paper: Johns gift.
Margaret sinks on the sofa for a moments rest. She remembers picking out that coatthree shops she visited, comparing, weighing up. Settled on a navy Northwind, sturdy and warm, pockets everywhere. Saleswoman promised it was the best balance of quality and price. Eighteen hundred quidit seemed too much, but she thought, hes earned it, after everything. The old coats falling apart, sleeves fraying, the zip jams. He never complains, but Margaret sees him shivering at the bus stop.
She wants to see his face when he opens it. Wants him to notice, to appreciate. And, if shes honest, she wants something just as thoughtful in returnchosen with love, not just a hurried box of sweets. But she doesnt expect it.
John returns ninety minutes later with a small shopping bag. One glance tells Margaret hes bought the first thing he saw.
Here you go, he says, handing her the bag. Thought you might like it.
Inside is a box of perfume, a flashy brand shes never heard of.
Thanks, she says levelly. Very pretty.
Isnt it? The shop lady recommended itsaid its all the rage.
All the rage, Margaret echoes, placing it on the table. John, do you even know what perfume I wear?
He falters. Um… Chanel? Or?
I dont wear perfume, Margaret cuts in. I told you a hundred times. Im allergic.
Silence. John flushes to the roots of his hair. Sorry. I just forgot. Honestly. Ill swap it tomorrow…
Leave it, she turns away. Lets not talk about it. Ellen and the kidsll be here in an hour and we need to get ready.
John lingers, nods, then shuffles out. Margaret is left alone. She stares at the perfume, her disappointment swelling. Not for the gift itself, but for his thoughtlessnessthat thirty-eight years of marriage still hasnt taught him what she likes, that shes justtherefor him, as sure as running water.
Tears prick, but theres no time to cry. She shoves the perfume away and starts setting out plates.
Ellens family arrives around seven. Clattering up the stairs, ringing the bell, and the house erupts with noise.
Gran! Ruby bursts in first, tossing hat and coat onto the floor. Were here! Wheres the tree?
In the lounge, sweetheart, Margaret hugs her granddaughter tight. Go and have a lookits gorgeous.
Max trails behind, nods briefly, immediately diving into his tablet. Ellen rolls her eyes. Max, put it awaywere guests.
Oh, let him be, John intervenes from the lounge. Ellen! David! Come on, hang up your coats.
The usual pre-party mayhem ensues. David brings in grocery bags and a bottle of prosecco, Ellen stores a cake in the fridge. Ruby races between rooms, Max settles on the sofa. Margaret hurries between kitchen and table, keeping warm starters coming, John sets out drinks.
Mum, let me help, Ellen appears, tying on an apron. Youve been on your feet all day, I bet.
You could say that. Margaret shrugs. But its nothing I cant handle.
Typical yousupermum. Ellen smiles, a tinge of sadness in her voice. Wish I had your energy. By the time Im home from work, Ive nothing left.
Works busy? Margaret asks, arranging the fish dish.
Oh yesnew project, looming deadlines. Davids rushed off his feet too. The kids… well, they mostly fend for themselves. Max shuts himself away. Ive no idea whats up with him.
Have you tried talking about it? Margaret ventures. Maybe theres something going on at school, or with his friends?
I have, Ellen sighs, But he just says Im fine and buries himself in his screen. Maybe its just his age.
Before Margaret can reply, the doorbell rings again.
Meg, itll be Mike and Tania! Can you get it? John calls.
She wipes her hands and heads to the door. The rest of the evening flies by. The table groans under heaps of food; glasses clink, laughter rings out. Mike recounts stories from his youth, Tania chips in, David starts on the jokes. Ellen wrangles the children, John tops up everyones drinks. Margaret sits at the head, smiling, feeling both content and hollow.
Around eleven, its time for presents. The grandchildren get toys and treats, Ellen and David gift their parents a voucher for dinner, Mike and Tania bring a new dinnerware setsweet, traditional.
Now then,” John announces. Exchanging our gifts!
Margaret fetches the blue-wrapped box from under the tree and hands it to him.
Happy Christmas, John, she says gently.
He takes the box, his expression flashing between gratitude and guilt. He unwraps it, opens the lidtheres the navy Northwind coat, neat, padded, loaded with pockets.
Meg John breathes. That was expensive, surely?
Not too bad, she smiles. What matters is if you like it. Try it on.
He slips it over his shoulders. Fits perfectly. Ellen claps.
It suits you, Dad! And Mum, youve got wonderful taste.
Thank you, Meg. John hugs her, awkward and stiff. Didnt expect that. Truly brilliant.
He shrugs out of the coat and digs under the tree. Margaret braces for a box of chocolates, or similar.
But John hands her a large package, silver with blue snowflakestoo big for chocolates. His face is a portrait of guilty hope.
Go on, open it.
Margaret takes itlight as air. She lifts off the wrapping and freezes. A box, marked Snowphonethe very phone John had mentioned. The price is stamped bold: £729.99.
John… she stammers. But thats
For you, he interrupts hastily. So you can take photos of the grandkids. The cameras amazing, endless storage…
The phone is brand-new, gleaming. Margarets hands shakeshe never asked for this, her old handset works. She doesnt need the camera, the storage…
Where did the money come from? she asks quietly.
From my bonus, John answers, too quickly, shifty-eyed. Half I put aside. The restpresent for you.
But Margaret sees it in himthe way he wont meet her eyes, twitches the tablecloth, smiles too broadly. She knows hes lying. The bonus was forty thousand. The phone is nearly double that. What savings did he dip into?
Its beautiful, Margaret! Tania gushes. You lucky thing!
Yes. Beautiful, Margaret replies by rote.
She rises, cradling the phone box. Excuse me, I need…the loo. She slips away.
In the bathroom, silence and cool tiles. Margaret puts the phone box on her lap and stares, trying to parse her feelings.
Resentment? Of course. Anger? Certainly. But something heavier: disappointment, tirednessthe realisation that theres nothing left between them but routine and compromise. He hadnt thought of her at all in buying this phone. Hed bought it for himself, his dream. Then, faced with her thoughtful coat, he lost nerve and passed off his own desire as a gift to her. Wrapped a lie in shiny paper.
She rests her head against the cool wall. She wants to cry, but the tears wont come. She sits and listens to laughter and clinking glasses as they await midnight.
After a long pause, Ellen knocks gently. Mum? You alright?
Im fine, Margaret calls, steadying her voice. Be right out.
She checks the mirrorpale, drainedsplashes water over her face, grabs the phone box, and rejoins the party.
Everyone has their champagne. John looks up, and in his eyes, she sees fear. He realises that she knows.
A chasm opens silently between them as they lock eyes. Margaret returns to the table, sets down the phone box, and picks up her glass.
To the New Year, Mike declares, raising his drink. To health and happinessand may all our dreams come true!
To dreams, Margaret echoes, downing her glass.
The rest of the night passes in a fog. She smiles, answers questions, helps the grandchildren light sparklers on the balcony. John hovers close, tries to be attentive, refilling her glass, passing her food. But the air between them grows heavier with each passing hour.
The guests leave after three. Ellens family drives home; Mike and Tania call a cab. Margaret closes the door behind them and leans against it. The flat is silent, only the ticking of the clock and distant sounds from the lounge remain.
John is on the sofa, the Snowphone in his handsher gift. Theres a childlike glow on his face as he swipes through the menus.
Setting it up? Margaret asks from the doorway.
He startles, quickly putting it down. “Just checking it works. Making sure alls fine.”
Right. She starts gathering empty plates. John, could you give me a hand?
They tidy in silence. Margaret washes, John dries, puts things away. Its familiartoo familiarbut tonight its an ordeal. Every minute drags.
Meg, John says suddenly, when they finish. Thank youfor the coat. Its really wonderful.
Youre welcome, she replies, not turning.
AndI hope you like the phone?
She freezes, sponge in hand. John, you bought it for yourself, didnt you?
Silence. Margaret turns. John stands, pale as paper.
Meg, I… I didnt he falters, then sighs. How did you know?
It doesnt matter, she says, wiping her hands. It matters that its true.
He drops his gaze. Im sorry. I just wanted that phone so badly. Id been saving, planning. Then you gave me the coat, and I thought youd know. So I told myself Id give you the phone. So you wouldn’t get cross.
So you wouldnt get told off, she repeats, laughing bitterly. Do you realise what youve done? You stole your dream from yourself and handed it to me, as if I should be happy for your sake.
Thats not fairI did think of you. I wanted to make you happy.
Did you? She steps closer. John, I dont want that phone. I wanted you to remember I cant wear perfume. Or to maybe, just once, get me something truly for me. Or to actually notice how tired I am, and help out without a prod. But you just dont, do you? Because you only think of yourself.
He stands with his arms limp, like a scolded schoolboy.
Meg, I…I didnt know. Sorry. Truly.
She wants to shout that sorry isnt enough, that shes sick of carrying the invisible weight, suffocating from his thoughtlessness. But looking at him, she sees not just self-centredness, but bewilderment, fearand love. Clumsy, childish, but love nonetheless.
Forget it. She is bone-weary. Im off to bed.
She leaves him alone. In the bedroom, darkness and chill. Margaret slips under the covers, still dressed, eyes open. She listens as John moves about, switches off the lights, bolts the door. After a while, he slides into bed, careful not to disturb her, and lies there, clearly awake.
Meg, he whispers. You awake?
“Yes.”
I never meant to hurt you. He turns towards her, she feels his warm breath. Ive always been daft, havent I?
Yes, John. Daft, she agrees without malice.
And you… youve always been smarter. Stronger. Better than me. He hesitates. I know I mess up, forget things, make excuses. But I do love you, Meg. I really do.
She stares at his shadowed face.
John, when did you last give me something I actually wanted? Chosen for me, not you?
A long pause. I dont remember. Not for years. Youre right.
Thats it, she sighs. Weve forgotten how to bring one another joy, real joy. Everythings a trade-off now. I give you a coat because your old ones worn. You give me a phone because you cant think what else. Theyre not gifts just stuff.
What are real gifts, then? he asks, baffled.
I dont know, Margaret confesses. Maybe the ones from the heartwhen you truly wish to make someone else happy. From knowing them, remembering them.
Ive never been good at that, John admits softly. But you could teach me.
She looks at him and something tugs inside. He is what he has always beendaydreaming, distracted, a little selfish. But he tries, in his clumsy way. And, despite it, she loves him. Loves the wide-eyed glee over a new gadget, loves that hes there, after all these years.
Alright, she says quietly. Lets try.
He hugs her, awkward and warm, and she lets him. They lie, side by side, listening to one another’s breathing. Dawn creeps round the curtains. New Years begun, the party is over, life continues.
Next morning, Margaret lies in bed late. Johns spot is empty, but smells and sounds drift from the kitchen. She gets up, shrugging on her dressing gown.
Johns at the hob, frying eggs. Hes set out cups and plates, sliced bread. He looks up when she enters, all nerves.
Morning. Thought you must be worn out, so I did breakfast.
Thank you, Margaret sits, warmed by more than the tea. Hes tried.
They eat quietly, the silence different nowno longer leaden, but easy. John clears away without being told.
In the lounge, the new phone sits untouched. Margaret picks it up, turns it in her hands. Beautiful, expensiveand not what she wants.
Meg, John comes in. About the phone. Tell you whatuse it for a while, if you want. If its not right, Ill have it and you can pick something else. Is that fair?
She glances up; Johns gaze is hopeful, boyish. His dream, waiting for permission to return.
Fair enough. But, next time, if you want something bigjust tell me. Well talk it through, like grown-ups.
Alright. He grins, relieved.
She hands him the phone; John smiles broadly, immediately delving into its settings, all attention.
Margaret watches him, reflecting on those thirty-eight yearsyears of compromise, of half-truths, of habitual peace. Not ideal, nor is she. They have learned to sidestep fights, to manage life as a team of two, maintaining a fragile illusion of understanding. Yet, under all that, a kernel of love persistsdim, gentle, alive.
She makes herself tea and sits by the window, watching the snow. The citys waking: children hurl snowballs down the pavement; shops open. Life goes on, with all its small joys and disappointments.
Margaret remembers the times when gifts were simple: John came home with flowers, shed bake his favourite pie, theyd walk hand-in-hand at sundown, chatter about everything and nothing. When did it all change? When did love boil down to ticking off chores?
Meg! Come and see! John calls from the lounge. Look at these pictures!
She finishes her tea and joins him. Hes brimming with excitement, phone in hand. See how sharp the colours are? I took a photo of the treelook!
The tree sparkles in the image, every bauble clear.
Lovely, she says.
Isnt it? I want to learn video next…and get snaps of the grandkids. Its their birthdays soon.
Yes, I know. She sits with him.
John jabs at the screen, grinning, a boy again. Margaret feels a rush of tenderness, strong and sudden. With all his flaws, dreams and missteps, this is her husbandher companion, her family.
John, she murmurs.
He looks up. Yes, Meg?
I love you.
He beams, surprised. I love you too, Meg.
And just like that, the distance closes.
Outside, the snow still falls, blanketing the city, another winter for the record books. But inside, its warm. The tree still glows, leftovers fill the fridge, and two people learn again to livetogether, imperfect but real.
Margaret stands at the window, gazing at the silent streets, rooftops tucked in white. Life is never perfect; there are no storybook endings. Theres routine, weariness, and the odd argument. Yet there are momentsfleeting but truewhen you see you are exactly where you ought to be, beside the person who matters.
Meg, shall I take a photo? For the album? John steps up, holding the phone, hopeful.
She smiles, Go on. But make me look younger, will you?
Youre not old, he insists, snapping the picture. Youre beautiful.
She laughs, and he captures her in that momentthe window light, her joyful, genuine self.
See? John shows herthere she stands, by the window, a gentle smile, not young but vibrant.
Its nice, Margaret admits. Well done, John.
He puts his arm around her, holding her close, phone in the other hand. Lets do one together. For us.
They pose in front of the window, arm in arm, the tree behind them, snow still drifting outside. The click of the camera preserves their worlda little worn, a little battered, but theirs.
Margaret looks at the photo: two tired, grey-haired people, but together. And her heart aches with an unspoken question: when will they learn to give each other genuine happiness again? To gift joy, not just convenience? Maybe soon; maybe that is joybeing here, side by side, through everything.
John, she says, not looking away from the window, Do you know what Id really like today?
Whats that? he asks.
To just stay in. Sit together, have tea, watch something silly. Just us. No guests, no rush. Is that alright?
John smiles. Thats just what I hoped for, too.
So they do. Sitting under a single blanket, eating leftover cake, watching an old film, saying little; none needed. Enough to simply be, together.
Outside, dusk folds into evening, the snow slows, stars wink through the clearing sky. Margaret watches them, thinking of all thats aheadthe winter, busy days. But for now, in the first soft quiet of the year, they simply are. Old habits, old failings, but love all the same.
Margaret lets her eyes close, leaning on Johns shoulder as he hugs her close, both eyes on the flickering TVa simple embrace, but containing their whole lives. Their love, their forgiveness, their shared history.
Beyond the window, the city spins on. New Year’s will be as hard as any otherbut theyll face it, as always, side by side.
In the end, that is enough.
