The Stepmother
Life can be complicated, especially when it comes to relationships between family and outsiders. Sometimes relatives quarrel and remain enemies for life, while other times strangers grow close.
Thomas, now seventy-five, feels older but not lonely. In his youth, he was called Tommy, but in his later years, people call him Old Tom—shorter, more polite, and somehow warmer. He doesn’t mind.
He married late, at twenty-six. Back then, lads in the village wed young, but Tommy took his time. None of the local girls caught his eye.
“Tommy, how long will you stay a bachelor?” his mother, relatives, and married friends would ask.
“Why not? I’m happy as I am,” he’d laugh. “Plenty of time for the old ball and chain. Look at my mates—always moaning about wives and kids demanding things. I’m my own man!”
Still, the young women eyed him hopefully. He was a fine lad—hardworking, sharp, and already showing a knack for managing things. He didn’t drink or smoke, either. Many mothers nudged their daughters toward him.
“Tommy would make a good husband,” the village women said. But he wasn’t in a hurry. Fate had other plans.
Tommy often went to the village hall in the evenings—back then, the youth gathered there, music blaring. If he’d wanted a bride, he could’ve married easily. But the local girls didn’t interest him.
He worked as a lorry driver for the agricultural depot, often sent to other districts. One morning, he told his mother:
“Off to Ripley first thing—the foreman’s sending me for spare parts. Pack me some food; it’s a long drive. Back by evening.”
“Oh, Tommy, perfect! Your aunt Margaret’s been meaning to visit. Drop by and fetch her, won’t you?”
“All right, I’ll stop by,” he promised.
Margaret was his mother’s elder sister, and she’d play a key role in Tommy’s life. Though she didn’t know he was coming that day, she’d planted the idea long ago.
“Tommy, if you’re ever round these parts, pop in. Or maybe I’ll hitch a ride with you.” She was crafty, always pushing him to marry.
On his way, Tommy swung by Margaret’s.
“Auntie, I’ll pick you up on my way back.”
“Oh, you darling! Don’t worry, I’ll be ready as the dawn,” she chirped, bustling about.
On the return trip, he collected her.
“Tommy, let’s drop off a sack of potatoes to Valerie on the way. It’s right on our route.”
“Fine by me—plenty of room in the lorry.”
Valerie lived a mile from Ripley. They stopped, and Tommy unloaded the sack—and met a lovely young widow with a five-year-old daughter, Emily. The moment he saw Valerie, sparks flew. Margaret noticed instantly.
“Well, this is better,” she thought. “Now we’re getting somewhere.”
Tommy couldn’t sleep—he was smitten. He saw Valerie again when driving Margaret home.
“Tommy, swing by Valerie’s—I’ve something to give her.”
He was thrilled—he’d been racking his brains for a reason to see her. While Margaret whispered with Valerie, he stole glances. After dropping Margaret off, she handed him knitting needles.
“Valerie asked for these—she’s making socks for Emily. Mine are spare.”
Tommy stopped by Valerie’s on his way home. This time, she served tea. They talked for hours.
As he left, Emily piped up:
“Uncle Tommy, come back soon! We like you, don’t we, Mum?”
Tommy and Valerie laughed.
“Count on it,” he said.
Three visits later, Valerie and Emily moved in with him.
Tommy realized Margaret’s potato delivery was a ruse—Valerie’s cellar was already full. But the plan worked.
Life was good. Emily adored him, calling him “Dad.” Valerie worked in the village, but cracks appeared. Tommy was tidy; Valerie wasn’t.
“Sort your own mess!” she’d snap. “You’re worse than my mum!”
Tommy bit his tongue, but Emily copied him, keeping her room spotless.
Years passed, then one day—boom.
“I’ve had enough! I’m leaving!” Valerie shouted. “Emily, pack up!”
“But Mum, I don’t want to leave Dad!”
“He’s not your dad!”
Heartbroken, Tommy watched them go. Emily was twelve.
He threw himself into beekeeping, studying books, starting with five hives. His honey was top-notch—honest and pure. Word spread.
Two years later, a woman named Rose visited for honey, eyeing his home and hives. On her third trip, she asked:
“You’re tidy, sober—why no wife? Bees hate drinkers.”
Tommy hesitated.
“Had a wife—Valerie. And a stepdaughter, Emily. Lasted seven years. Valerie said I was petty.”
“I’m Rose. Maybe we’d get on?”
“You proposing?”
“I am. I’m lonely too. Fancy a try?”
They did. Rose moved in—but village life wasn’t for her. Two months later, she left.
“Country life’s not me. Cheerio, Tommy.”
Years passed. Then one day, two women walked in—customers, he thought. One smiled.
“Don’t you recognize me, Dad?”
“Emily! Or—Emmie? What’s your surname now?”
“Just call me Emmie. This is my daughter, Lily. And that’s my husband, Geoffrey.”
They embraced.
“You live alone still?”
“Aye. But now you’re here!”
“We’ve bought a house nearby—Geoffrey needs the country air.”
“Perfect! I’ve a thriving apiary—honey’ll fix him up.”
Emmie’s eyes glistened.
“Mum died two years ago.”
“Sorry to hear that. But now you’ve got me. You’re my family—Lily’s my granddaughter.”
Old Tom—as the village calls him now—beamed.
“Neighbours have visitors. Now I do too.”
