From W. Y. Traveller: Blue
"Mary?" Watson enquired, opening the door to their bedroom. "You've been up here all day. Is something wrong?"
Mary looked up to greet him with a watery smile, wiping at her eyes. "Just feeling a bit blue, John dear." Her chest rose with a hitching sob. "It hasn't been a very good day."
He sat down beside her on the bedspread, taking her hand in his. "Tell me."
She gestured aimlessly with one hand. "Well, this morning my favourite necklace broke, and I was in such a hurry to leave I couldn't find all the pieces, so I don't know if it can be fixed. Then the ladies in my sewing circle had a small Christmas party, where each of us brought a present for someone else, except no one brought a present for me!" Tears started to come to her eyes again, her voice wobbling. "They were all so very sorry, but I still left early because it was so hard to watch them with their presents when I didn't have one. Then," he voice hitched, "then I met one of my friends on the way home, out buy a silk scarf for another friend of hers. She was so happy to talk about it, saying that it was what she does for every friend for their first Christmas knowing each other, and wasn't it wonderful that I was there to help her shop?"
Here Mary paused, smiling slightly even through her tears. "It's silly, I suppose, to begrudge a friend a present, and I don't really, it's just–" Her smile broke. "It's my first Christmas knowing her too, and I don't even know if she remembers." She began to sob, collapsing into Watson's arms as he pulled her closer. He held her tight, murmuring comforts into her hair, and wondered bleakly why it was that sometimes those dearest to us could cause the worst hurts of all.