**The Farewell**
The deafening silence of the dark night faded, bringing the inevitable moment of parting ever closer. Dawn approached. Margaret had spent the entire night sitting by the coffin of her late husband, lost in thought, recalling the life she had shared with John. Both had grown old together—John was seventy-six, and she, three years his junior.
*”John lived a good long life—could’ve lived longer if not for the illness,”* she mused silently.
*”You were a good husband and father, John,”* she whispered aloud as daylight crept in, illuminating his face better than the flickering candle had. *”Faithful above all—and heaven knows you had your share of temptations… Oh, how quickly time slips away.”*
All night, memories haunted her like pages of a book, turning one after another, filled with sorrows and joys alike. Fifty-three years together—no small thing.
When John realised he wouldn’t rise again, he often told her:
*”Maggie, God’s punishing me for my sins—must’ve lived wrong, thought wrong.”* But she’d soothe him.
*”Hush now, John. You lived a good life. Never drank, never ran wild like some. You loved me and our Emily. What sins could you have?”* And hearing her, he’d calm.
Morning broke. In the kitchen, their daughter, Emily, bustled about. She’d come alone from London—divorced long ago—while her own daughter, Margaret’s granddaughter, had just had another baby, so she couldn’t make it. No final goodbye from little Sophie. But that’s how it was—though she’d spent every childhood summer here.
Emily had been their only surviving child. Two others had been lost—one lived a day, the other a week. Margaret had clung to Emily, guarded her fiercely. Yet here she was, grown and gone.
Even before finishing school, Emily had declared:
*”Mum, Dad—I’m leaving for the city after school. I don’t want to stay in the village. I know I’m your only one and should care for you, but life’s better in London.”*
*”Aye, go on then,”* John agreed at once. Margaret had pressed a corner of her headscarf to her eyes.
*”Oh, love, what’ll we do without you?”* She nearly wept, but John shot her a look.
*”Let the girl make her way. No sense rotting here. Let her climb.”*
In her heart, Margaret understood—but letting Emily go frightened her. Off she went, studied at college, became a shop manager, married, and never returned for long.
Margaret and John lived simply, working side by side on the farm, content and quiet. In old age, they took Sophie every summer—until she grew and forgot the way. Her life was her own now, though the old pair missed her dearly.
*”We took her haymaking—she loved splashing in the river after.”* Margaret smiled faintly, recalling Sophie’s squeals as John carried her into the water, teaching her to swim—and he’d succeeded.
*”Mum? What is it?”* Emily slipped in quietly.
*”Just remembering. Sit with me, love. Say goodbye to your father properly before the neighbours come. They’ll all be here—respected him, they did. Never did a soul harm.”*
Emily sat close, arm around her mother.
*”I’m glad you look so like him. Time will blur his face in my mind, but you’ll keep him alive for me.”* Margaret swayed slightly, voice thick.
*”Mum… how did you and Dad meet? We’ve never talked about it.”*
*”Oh, Emily… it was strange. He latched onto me the moment he saw me in Lincolnshire—stuck for life.”*
*”Lincolnshire? What were you doing there?”*
*”I worked on the farm, always top of my duties. Sent to a county gathering—they even gave me a certificate and a little wristwatch. None of the village girls had one! Such joy.”*
After the tour, they were led to the canteen. There she met John—at the next table, staring shamelessly. Tall, strong, though shabbily dressed. *No woman’s touch there,* she’d thought. And young men were scarce in the village—off to cities or the army, never returning…
As she left, his voice stopped her:
*”Take me with you. Name’s John—yours?”*
*”Margaret,”* she said firmly. *”You don’t even know how deep in the sticks I live. You’d trade town for that?”*
*”Aye. No ties here. I’m coming with you, Maggie.”* And so he always called her.
He kept his word. Came to the village, straight to her parents:
*”I’d like to marry your daughter. I’ve nothing to my name, but I’ll be a good man to her.”* Her father had chuckled.
*”Sent you to Lincolnshire for a meeting, and you came back with a husband?”*
*”Just happened,”* she murmured. *”But I’ll have him.”*
They wed that Saturday—simple, the whole village feasting in the yard. Then came quiet years of honesty and work. Happy, too. Folk whispered:
*”That Maggie’s got herself a fine one—handsome devil. But men like that stray.”*
Gossip reached them, but John never glanced at another. Children came hard—two lost, then Emily, strong and healthy.
*”Maggie, I love our girl. Love you. Don’t know what I’d have done without you. Like lightning struck me that day.”*
She believed him. Yet… once, haymaking, she noticed Flora—known village flirt, widowed young—hanging round John. Women despised her—moonshine and men her lure. Wives had dragged husbands from her doorstep, claws and curses flying. But Flora stayed bold.
She’d eyed John at the wedding.
*”That one’s a catch. Just wait—I’ll have him yet.”*
Margaret saw her nudging him, whispering:
*”John… meet me behind the barn tonight. I’ll show you fire…”*
He’d worked on, silent, only smiling at his wife. Later, bathing in the river, Flora pressed close.
*”John, if I drown, will you save me?”*
*”Why would I? Got my own to mind.”* He’d winked at Margaret, who smiled her secret smile—his alone to read.
Oh, her heart had raced. *What if he falters?* But he never did. Flora tried again—lingering by the road, offering drinks. He’d pass, polite, a faint smirk playing.
*”I love you for resisting her,”* Margaret once said.
*”Promised your parents I’d be true. Life’s nothing without you.”*
*”That was our love, Emily. And you’ve his look, his wit.”*
In age, John’s sight failed—one eye gone. Once, in a blizzard, he walked back from the hospital, snow-blind but unerring. *”How he found the road, I’ll never know.”*
Now, arm in arm by his coffin, mother and daughter wept softly. Neighbours gathered, then filled the house. Farewells made.
After the burial, Emily returned to London. Margaret, alone, felt his presence—footsteps, tea left cooling. She’d sit and think:
*”He won’t leave me long. He’ll come for me—knows I’m lost without him.”*
**Lesson learned:** Love outlasts even death—faithful to the last breath, and beyond.
