**Sun After the Rain…**
“Emily, come here. I’ve been down to the cellar and got you some potatoes.” Emily turned toward her neighbour’s yard.
“Oh, thank you, Aunt Margaret. I’ll pay you back, I promise.”
“And how will you manage that?” Margaret sighed. “You ought to have thought before having so many children. Peter was never a proper man, was he?”
Emily swallowed the bitter words. She still had a week until payday, and milk alone wouldn’t keep her going—let alone feed her three little ones waiting at home. Peter, the man her neighbour spoke of, had been her husband—now her ex—since last year, when he’d decided three children wouldn’t earn them a house or a car from the government. He’d packed his things and declared he wouldn’t live in poverty. Emily had been washing dishes at the time and dropped a plate in shock.
“Peter, what are you saying? You’re a man—get a proper job if the pay’s not enough. These are your children! You always said you wanted a big family!”
“I did,” he snapped. “But I didn’t know the government would ignore families like ours. Why should I work myself to the bone for nothing?”
Emily’s hands fell limp.
“Peter, what about us? How am I supposed to manage alone?”
“I don’t know, Em. And why didn’t you insist one child was enough? You’re the woman—you should’ve known this would happen.”
Before she could reply, he bolted out the door and sprinted to the bus stop. Tears pricked her eyes, but then she saw three pairs of eyes watching her. Oliver, the eldest, was starting school this year. Little Alfie was just five, and their sunshine, Daisy, was barely two. Emily swallowed hard and forced a smile.
“Who’s up for pancakes?”
The children cheered—though Oliver asked quietly that evening, “Mum… is Dad really not coming back?”
She hesitated, then simply said, “No, love.”
Oliver sniffled, then squared his shoulders. “Fine. We’ll manage. I’ll help you.”
By the time Emily returned from the evening milking, the little ones were fed and tucked in. She marvelled at how her son had grown up overnight.
***
Thanking Margaret again for the potatoes, Emily headed home. “Lord, when will this winter end? It’s been brutal.” The potatoes would stretch their meals, but a recent frost had ruined many stored in cellars. The villagers pitied them—kind as they were—but never missed a chance to remind her what a fool she’d been. A fool? She couldn’t imagine life without any of her children now. Times were hard, but they got by. New clothes and toys would’ve been nice, but the kids never asked. They knew Mum would buy what she could when she could. This year, she and Oliver had even planned a proper greenhouse—just plastic sheeting for now, but enough to jar more tomatoes and cucumbers for winter.
Shifting the bucket to her other hand, Emily spotted a small crowd—three people was a crowd in their village at this hour—gathered by her fence. As she neared, she heard murmurs.
“Look at the size of him—must be a hunting dog.”
“Probably mauled by a boar. He’s done for.”
Emily followed their gaze and gasped. “Why are you just standing there? He needs help!”
The neighbours turned. “Don’t be daft, Em. See those fangs? Who’d risk it? Besides, it’s too late for him.”
“Too late? He came to us for help!”
The massive dog lay wounded in the snow, his side torn open. Emily didn’t know breeds, but she saw the pain in his eyes. The crowd chuckled and dispersed, unwilling to get involved.
She knelt, gently stroking between his ears. “Hold on, just a little longer. I’ll fetch a blanket, and we’ll get you inside.”
A rustle came from behind. “Mum, I brought the blanket. And the old fridge door—we can use it as a stretcher.”
Oliver stood there, eyes wet. The dog whimpered but didn’t resist as they carried him home. He passed out while Emily cleaned his wounds. The younger two watched wide-eyed from the sofa.
“Mum… will he live?”
Oliver stroked the dog’s head as its cloudy eyes flickered open. “He has to. We’ll take care of him.”
The next morning, the dairy workers cornered Emily.
“Em, what were you thinking? Bringing some strange, half-dead beast near your kids?”
“Honestly! As if three mouths aren’t enough to feed. And what’s the point? He’ll die anyway—or turn on them!”
Emily raised her voice. “Don’t you have enough problems of your own? Linda, didn’t Kate threaten to scalp you over your little affair with her husband? And Tracy—maybe focus on your own boy before judging mine. Fourteen, and already drinking behind the shop!”
The women fell silent, stepping back. Emily never spoke like this. She grabbed extra milk before leaving. “Maybe Duke will drink this.”
Oliver had named the dog. He barely left its side—fetching water, adjusting its head, tucking a boot under for comfort. That evening, Duke lapped weakly at the milk.
“There you go. You’ll pull through.”
And he did. Emily fed him as she did the children, skimping on her own portions. Three weeks later, Duke wobbled about the house. The kids petted him gently, still wary of his size. He slept on a mat by Oliver’s bed. The village still gossiped, but Emily ignored them. Let them talk.
***
Spring arrived suddenly. Emily and Oliver hurried to cover a plot with plastic, warming the soil. Since taking in Duke, the neighbours had stopped helping. Well, fair enough—if she could feed a hound, she could manage on her own. She didn’t resent them. They weren’t wrong. She’d chosen to have her children, chosen to save the dog. And no one forced her to neglect the cellar insulation before the frost.
As they worked the garden, Duke and the little ones tumbled outside. The children seemed oblivious to his fangs, rolling atop him in the sun-dried grass. Their laughter drew even the nosiest neighbours to the fence.
“Bruce!”
The dog froze, then yelped and vaulted the fence, hurling himself at a stranger. He yipped and licked the man’s face as the man hugged him fiercely. Emily and the children gaped. The neighbours edged closer.
Fifteen minutes passed before man and dog calmed. The stranger finally looked at Emily.
“Hello. I’ve searched six months for him—thought he’d died in that boar fight. But here he is.”
Oliver sniffled, realising Bruce—now Duke—would be taken.
“Mum nursed him. Stayed up nights changing bandages.”
The man glanced at Oliver, then Alfie and Daisy, who fought back tears.
“Hold on, no tears yet. I’m not taking him this second. Mind if I come in for a cuppa?”
Emily blinked. “Of course.”
He hesitated. “My car’s parked down the lane. I’ll fetch it.” He eyed the dog, then Oliver. “Come with me? Bruce might not understand otherwise.”
Normally, Emily would’ve refused. But Duke wouldn’t love a bad man.
They returned swiftly. Emily stared at the sleek, expensive car—as did the villagers. The man, Henry, was a painter, businessman, hunter—and, above all, decent. Turns out, they hadn’t even been hunting that day—just walking. No one knew where the boar had come from. Henry and friends had searched until dark, then snow buried the tracks. He’d combed nearby villages for months. Ours was the last.
Oliver begged him to stay a few days. To Emily’s surprise, Henry agreed.
“Why not? I could use the labour. Your fence needs mending, and Oliver mentioned a greenhouse.”
Emily flushed. “Oh, no, we’ll manage.”
Henry looked at her sternly. “Don’t be silly. You cared for Bruce when I couldn’t. You think I don’t see the sacrifices you’ve made?”
A week later, it felt like Henry had always been there. He slipped effortlessly into their lives, fixing, playing, teaching. Emily didn’t know how they’d managed without him. But she wanted him gone—because she liked him too much. The way his gaze lingered told her he felt the same.
One evening, after the children slept, she found him in the yard.
“Henry… I need you to leave.”
He nodded. “You’re right. But hear me first. You probably think I’m put off by three children. I’m not. What scares me is… me. Five years ago, my wife and kids died—their coach went off a cliff. I know grief. It’s worse than any physical pain. I like you. Your children are wonderful. But we can’t have anything. Because losing someone… I won’t
