**Diary Entry A Mothers Shame**
For years, I lied to the village about my daughtertoo ashamed to tell the truth. Now, as I prepare her final bundle, I find letters from her. I tuck them beneath her pillow. Let her take them to the grave, along with her terrible secret.
**From the Heart: A Mothers Shame**
Margaret had always believed in dreams. Even as a girl, she could unravel their meaningsfor others, and for herself. But her own dreams? Those were different. She flew in them. Soared above the rooftops, the wind rushing past. One dream returned often: white horses, dappled grey, pulling a sleigh. She and Thomas held the reins, laughing as the horses leapt into the sky. Thennothing. Just the two of them, breathless, clinging to each other. That dream vanished when Thomas died. Yet sometimes, in sleep, the horses returned. Thomas stood beside her, smiling, but his hands stayed empty. She knew the old sayingdreaming of horses meant illness, even death. Still, she cherished those flights, even as her heart faltered the next day.
That night, they stood together in the sleigh again. No reins this time. The horses climbed higher, up to the clouds, where a little angel sat grinning. “Lucy! My Lucy!” Margaret cried outand woke herself.
“Its time,” she whispered. No grief, no despair.
The cottage had always been tidy. She swept the floors, shook out the woven rugs, then fetched the bundle shed saved for this day. Everything laid out, notes writtenwhere to find what. No one else would manage it right. Only Janet would come. Her oldest friend, more sister than neighbor. The others were gone, or too far to bother. But Janet? Shed come running.
Margaret took a notebook and pen and began to write.
*”Forgive me, Janet. Youve been family to me. But dont tell the village my shame. It wont hurt me then, but still Ive lied for years. Said my daughter was kind, just too ill to visit. The truth? I dont know where she is. Left long ago. Too ashamed to face the whispers, I spun taleseven to you. Dont wait for her. Dont search. Bury me beside Thomas. The cottage and all in it are yours. Maybe the children will find use for it. I failed as a mother. Let that shame die with me. Please, sister”*
She stoked the fireplace, closed the flue, and lay down to sleep.
Janet had noticed the dark windows last eveningbut how could she have guessed?
“Any note left behind?” the constable asked, jotting down details of the lonely womans passing.
“Nothing,” Janet murmured, crumpling the letter in her pocket. “Just the weight of being alone, I suppose.”
****
Lucy had been beautiful, cleverher only child. Thomas, the married farm manager, fell for a simple labourer. In those days, it couldve cost him his job, his standing. But the farm chairmanno saint himselfhelped him divorce quietly and marry Margaret. “No bastards in my village,” hed thundered. Thomass first wife moved to London, remarried. They lived happily, raising Lucyuntil the horses came.
Real ones this time. Thomas rode home late from the fields. Drunk, a rider missed him in the dark. The horses trampled him. Found at dawn, too late. If only someone had seen
Men courted Margaret after, but she refused. Lucy was her life. The girl shonetop of her class, sang at village fetes, even won a place at Londons Arts Academy! Margaret scraped pennies for train fare, hauling food parcels. The first year, Lucy welcomed her. Thenless so. Sharp words, excuses. Visits dwindled. Once, twice, Margaret arrived to find her gone. “Found some foreign bloke,” the dorm matron sniffed. Expelled soon after. Rumor said hed hooked her on drugs. Then a letter: *”Forget me. Ive my own life now.”*
In the beet fields, Margaret worked bent double, tears salting the soil.
Thena lie. Before Harvest Festival, she told the women Lucy had married. “A proper man, travels the world. Couldnt say soonerbad luck!” She brought tinned salmon, fancy sausages from “her son-in-law.” The village buzzed. Trips to London followedbut Margaret only wandered streets, searching faces.
As years passed, “letters” arrived. Shed fetch them from the post office, reading aloud to Janet: *”Lucys poorly, poor lamb. But her husbands kindsends such treats!”* Janet marveled at yogurts, bananas, spreading tales at the pub. Yearly, the parish gazette printed Lucys glowing birthday wishes. “What a daughter!” folks sighed.
By the end, no one cared. Margaret aged alone, the truth buried.
****
Janet reread the letter, sickened. *”All those treatsher pension pennies! Just to keep the lie alive. If shed only told me”*
“Well bury her without her daughter,” she told the mourners. “Lucys too ill to come. Husbands abroad. Well manage.”
In the death bundle lay letters from Lucy. Janet slipped them under Margarets pillow. Let her take them downand her shame with her.
**Lesson:** A lie may spare pride, but it starves the soul. Better the hard truth than a lifetime of empty words.
