The Youngest Son
“Alfie, maybe don’t take this haul? My heart’s uneasy… Honestly, ask someone to cover for you,” whispered Emily, fighting the tremor in her voice.
“This run pays well, love. And with the baby coming soon… Every penny counts,” Alfie replied, pulling her close and kissing the heads of their twin daughters, Sophie and Lucy.
Emily nodded silently. Her heart ached, but reason agreed—their budget was stretched thin. Brushing away tears, she hugged him tight. “Come back soon… We’ll be waiting.”
The door shut behind Alfie. Emily steadied herself—fed the girls, took them out. The day passed strangely calm, as if even the children sensed something amiss.
Every evening at ten, they called, just as promised. Emily told him how the girls missed him, how she took in sewing jobs. Alfie laughed through the phone. “I’ll be home tomorrow, kitten.”
But he never made it back.
On the return trip, his lorry collided with a truck that veered into his lane. No time to swerve. Alfie died instantly.
That night, the phone rang. Emily answered as if in a dream—then her world shattered.
Stumbling next door, she begged Auntie Maggie to watch the girls before collapsing. Doctors barely saved her—an emergency C-section, the baby frail and premature. He lacked his father’s strength; she lacked a husband’s support.
She named him Alfie. Home from hospital, she counted their savings—enough for a few months. Beyond that, who knew?
Life became survival. Auntie Maggie helped where she could. No relatives nearby. Emily sewed again—first for neighbours, then word spread.
The twins started Year Two; little Alfie, nursery. They were her hope, her anchor. But…
She loved them more. Not that she hated her son—she just couldn’t bear his face, so like his father’s. Every glance screamed: *You didn’t stop him.*
He was quiet, kind, never complaining—read books, helped without being asked.
The girls got new dresses; Alfie wore hand-me-downs.
“Poor lad… Orphaned with a living mother,” Auntie Maggie sighed, watching him wash dishes or tidy his sisters’ toys.
Years flew. The girls married, moved away. Only Alfie stayed.
He finished college, became an engineer at the local biscuit factory. Emily grew blind—sleepless nights, worn nerves, years alone.
Alfie cared for her—cooked, cleaned, guided her through the park. “Forgive me, son… I don’t deserve your love,” she’d whisper.
He’d smile. “There’s time, Mum. You’ll hold grandkids yet.”
Then one day, she arrived—shy, gentle Rose.
“Mum, Rose will stay with us. She’s got no one,” Alfie said softly.
Three months later, they married. The girls returned with grandchildren; the house was full. Emily smiled through pain.
The diagnosis was cruel—cancer. Time was short.
But fate granted one last joy—she held her first grandson.
She left this world peaceful, smiling, gripping the hand of the son she’d once struggled to love.
The youngest… the only one… the dearest.
**Lesson:** Love isn’t always fair, but it finds its way. Regret fades; what remains is what we chose to nurture.
