He took their son with him—but it was only a dream…
Margaret met Stanley at a dance in the local hall. He noticed her at once—a tall, slender girl with lively eyes and a bright laugh. All evening, he stayed close, and afterward, he offered to walk her home.
“Shall I come by tomorrow for a stroll?” he asked as they parted.
“Do,” she murmured, feeling her heart flutter.
And so their story began. In a village, word travels fast—soon, everyone knew: Margaret had a suitor. Folk whispered:
“They’ll be wed before long. He’s smitten, and no mistake. A fine match—both steady sorts.”
Before the year was out, Stanley proposed. They held a merry wedding, the whole village invited. The newlyweds settled into the cottage Stanley had built—he was a craftsman, trained from boyhood at his father’s side. Soon, a son was born. For a while, all was well.
But in time, Stanley began lingering at the neighbors’—fixing this, mending that. Often, they poured him a drink. First just one. Then more.
“Stan, must you spend every evening in other folk’s parlors?” Margaret sighed. “I’m tired of seeing you half-cut.”
“What’s the harm? I help where I can. The house lacks for nothing.”
Their boy grew; Margaret took work in town, leaving him with his grandmother. Stanley kept “helping.” But day by day, he came home worse for wear. Their marriage frayed. Quarrels flared. Once, she sent him away for a week, but for their son’s sake, she relented. He swore to mend his ways. For a time, he did—until he didn’t.
Margaret often thought of leaving. But the boy adored his father. When sober, Stanley taught him, played with him, built toy boats for him. For that, she stayed. And hoped—perhaps he’d remember the man she’d married.
Years and weariness took their toll. Stanley grew sallow, gaunt.
“See a doctor,” she urged.
“It’s nothing. A rest will set me right. I’m not old yet.”
By the time he stumbled into the surgery, he could barely stand. The doctor’s face said it all.
“Why wait so long? I fear we’ve little time left…”
Margaret nursed him to the end. Pain, helplessness, tears—all tangled together. Then he was gone. The village turned out for the funeral. Even those who’d scorned his drinking respected the craftsman he’d been.
On the fortieth night, Margaret dreamed. Stanley stood in shadow and said:
“How fares life without me? Rejoice while you can… But remember: I’ll take the boy with me.”
She woke drenched in sweat. Rushed to the child’s room. Twelve-year-old Edward slept soundly. She told no one of the dream, but from then on, she watched him like a hawk—fretted over every cough, every scrape. Stanley never haunted her sleep again. The dream faded… but the dread stayed.
Six months later, Edward never came home from school. A cart, a blind turn—gone in an instant.
Margaret’s grief was a beast that clawed her chest, stole her breath, her sleep. After the burial, she spoke barely a word. Months passed before she breathed without hurting. Longer still before life crept back in.
She married a widower with two daughters. Tried to be a good mother. Later, they had a son together. On the surface, she mended. But her heart never truly healed. Edward stayed—her firstborn, claimed by his father. The man who’d once been her everything.
Now Margaret has grandchildren. They visit, race about the garden, make her smile. But when Edward visits her dreams, she weeps. For she knows now—some dreams are warnings. And though we heed them, we cannot outrun fate. Only bear it. And go on.
