He took their son with him—but it was only a dream…
Meredith first met William at a dance in the local village hall. He noticed her at once—a tall, graceful girl with a ready laugh and lively eyes. All evening he stayed by her side, and as they parted, he asked to walk her home.
“Shall I come by tomorrow evening? We could take a stroll,” he said.
“Do,” she murmured, feeling her pulse quicken.
So began their tale. In a village, word travels fast—soon everyone knew Meredith had a suitor. The whispers began:
“Mark my words, they’ll be wed by spring. He follows her like a shadow. And why not? They make a fine pair, both steady as oak.”
William did propose before long. They held a merry wedding, with the whole village in attendance. The young couple settled into the cottage William had built—he was a skilled carpenter, having worked alongside his father since boyhood. In time, a son was born. For a while, all was well.
But as years passed, William began lingering at the pub—first to lend a hand, then to share a drink. The pints grew frequent. What once seemed harmless became habit.
“Will, enough of this,” Meredith would say. “I’m weary of you stumbling home at all hours.”
“Bah, a man’s entitled to his leisure. I provide, don’t I?”
Their boy grew, and Meredith took work in town, leaving him with her mother. Yet William’s visits to the pub did not cease. Cracks formed in their marriage. Quarrels flared. Once, she even left him—for a fortnight—but for their son’s sake, she relented. He vowed to mend his ways. And for a time, he did. Until the old patterns crept back.
She often thought of leaving. But their son adored his father. When sober, William taught him to whittle, to fish, to mend a fence. For the boy’s sake, Meredith endured. And still, she hoped—perhaps he’d remember the man he’d been when they wed.
Years and weariness took their toll. William grew sallow, weak.
“See a doctor,” she pleaded.
“It’s nothing. A rest will set me right. I’m not old yet.”
By the time he consented, he could scarcely rise from bed. The diagnosis was grim. The doctor shook his head.
“Far too late, I fear. We’ve little time now…”
Meredith nursed him to the end. Pain, helplessness, tears—all tangled together. Then he was gone. The village turned out for his burial—even those who’d scorned his drinking respected the craftsman he’d been.
On the fortieth night, she dreamed of him. He stood in shadow and spoke:
“How fares life without me? Rejoice while you can… Remember this—I’ll take the boy with me.”
She woke in a cold sweat. Rushing to the nursery, she found twelve-year-old Thomas asleep, unharmed. She never spoke of the dream. Yet from that night, she guarded him fiercely—questioning, fretting over every scraped knee. William never haunted her dreams again. The terror faded… but the unease remained.
Six months later, Thomas did not return from school. A cart had lost control. A moment’s misstep. He was gone.
The grief nearly broke her—sleepless, choking, raw. After the burial, she scarce spoke for months. Slowly, haltingly, she learned to breathe again. In time, she wed a widower with two daughters. They had a son of their own. Life, in its way, went on. Yet her heart never wholly mended. Thomas stayed with her—her firstborn. Taken by his father. The man who had once been her world.
Now Meredith has grandchildren. They visit, filling the cottage with laughter. She smiles. But when Thomas visits her dreams, she weeps. For now she knows: some dreams are warnings. And though we heed them, rarely can we change their course. All that remains is to endure. And live… as best we can.
