Thomas had been in love with Eleanor since their school days. Petite, delicate, with a scattering of freckles across her nose—that was how he first saw her, and even then, in Year Six, he had fallen head over heels.
Eleanor was three years younger, always top of her class, quiet and shy. With each passing year, Thomas’s heart tethered itself to her more deeply. He’d steal glances during break as she skipped rope with her friends in the schoolyard, light as a butterfly in the summer air.
When he returned from military service, he went straight to Eleanor’s house with a bouquet, asking for her hand. Her father, a stern and serious man, took Thomas aside for a long talk before finally—with a smile—placing Eleanor’s hand in his.
The wedding was joyous. Even distant relatives made the journey. For three days, the village celebrated. Eleanor’s eyes shone with happiness, and Thomas swelled with pride. He believed he’d won the finest bride in all of Yorkshire.
Two years later, with his parents’ help, Thomas built a home. Eleanor fluttered about in delight—three months before their first child was due, she finally had a house of her own.
Their daughter was born healthy and strong. They named her Margaret, after Eleanor’s grandmother. But for Eleanor, the birth had been a trial. For months after, she was pale and drained. Thomas took her to doctors, but they only shook their heads, saying time was all she needed.
Then, when Margaret was a year and a half old, Eleanor discovered she was pregnant again. The doctors warned her—her body was too weak. She might not carry to term. Even if she did, the birth could be dangerous.
Thomas begged her, echoing the doctors’ fears, but she refused.
*”I won’t kill my own child!”* she said, her voice steel. *”It’s not their fault for wanting to live. What will be, will be. God’s will is done.”*
The last month of her pregnancy, Eleanor was in hospital. At home, little Margaret fretted, and Thomas paced like a caged animal, his heart heavy with dread.
And he was right. Eleanor’s heart gave out during the birth—but not before two perfect twin girls came into the world.
Thomas was inconsolable. At the funeral, he stood by the grave, staring at the dark mound of earth with hollow eyes. His life with Eleanor played before him—her smile, their happiest days, the sound of her laughter ringing in his ears like a bell. When the coffin was lowered, he fell to his knees and howled like a wounded beast.
*”How—how do I go on without you? What do I do? Why should I even live?”* Tears carved paths down his face, and inside, a void yawned where his heart had been.
After the funeral, he drowned his sorrows. He drank to forget, to silence her voice in his mind.
Eleanor’s parents took the girls, convinced Thomas would never recover enough to be a proper father.
On the fortieth day after her death, Thomas—drunk senseless—collapsed in the shed. And there, he dreamed. Eleanor walked in, clad in a white summer dress, her hair loose, the rising sun catching copper glints in her curls. She stroked his head and spoke, soft as she always had.
*”Tom, my love, what are you doing? Aren’t you ashamed?”* She narrowed her green eyes, wagging a finger. *”The girls barely see their father. They miss you. You’re needed, just as I needed you. If you still love me, don’t abandon them. Love them the way you loved me.”*
He woke with a clear head, sunlight warming his face. As soon as dawn broke, he went to Eleanor’s parents—clean-shaven, pressed shirt, eyes carrying the weight of fifty years’ wisdom. Silently, he kissed her mother’s hand, embraced her father, took the girls, and returned home.
From then on, it was the four of them. He learned to cook, to mend clothes, to braid hair better than any mother could. The girls thrived—top of their class, well-behaved. And if anyone dared hurt them, Thomas swooped in like a hawk.
Neighbours often asked why he never remarried. *”You’re still young, handsome. You’ve got your health.”* He’d only look surprised and say, *”I’m already married.”*
*”Look—I’ve got three brides in my house. You think I should bring in a fourth? No, four’s too many to handle.”*
And so, with jokes and sleepless nights and endless toil, Thomas raised his three beauties. By the time they were in sixth form, a widowed neighbour began visiting—bringing dried mushrooms, pickled herring, making her intentions clear. When she wouldn’t take the hint, he invited her over one evening.
*”Which of my girls do you like best?”*
She scoffed. *”I don’t need your girls! They’ll finish school and fly off soon enough. But you—do you really mean to die alone? I love* you, *not them.”*
Thomas studied her, then handed her a photograph. *”Here’s my portrait. Love me all you want—at home.”*
She left, empty-handed.
The girls grew up, went to university, but never forgot him. Every weekend, they returned—helping with the house, the garden.
And when they married, Thomas spoke to each groom, just as his father-in-law once had. He wished only happiness for his three little princesses.
Now, they were women—with families, children, lives of their own. Yet not one forgot him. Every holiday, every Sunday, they returned to the village, filling his house with love.
On his eighty-first birthday, Thomas dreamed again.
He stood in a field, young and strong, shoulders broad, hair dark. And running toward him—his Ellie! Barefoot, in white, sunlight tangled in her curls like gold thread. He spread his arms wide, heart pounding as though it might leap from his chest. When they embraced, she looked up, her voice soft.
*”Tom, my darling, you’ve done so well. You gave our girls such a happy life. I saw it all. I prayed for you every day.”* She took his hand. *”Come. Now we’re together—for always.”*
Hand in hand, they walked through grass thick and green as emerald.
When Thomas passed, his family gathered. His daughters grieved, but each knew—
Now he was with the one he had loved all his life.
This was the true story of a good man—a father in every sense. The tale was passed down from my grandmother. Everyone in the village knew him.
Some men choose a life of sacrifice—not for themselves, but for those they love.
