The dawn caught us on a dusty road leading away from the village. In one hand, I held little Sophies tiny fingers, in the othera light suitcase stuffed not so much with belongings as with shattered hopes. The bus groaned as it pulled away from the stop, carrying us far from the place where, just hours before, Id still believed in something. I left without even saying goodbye to Mark. He was out fishing at that very sunrise hed been so excited about the night before. Through the grimy window, watching the fields rush past, I faced a bitter truth: I had never met a man worth fighting for. And yet, it had all begun so beautifully, so dazzlingly romantic it stole my breath.
Mark had barged into my life during his final year at university. He was relentlessdrowning me in compliments, gazing at me with lovesick eyes that melted every doubt. He swore he loved me, couldnt imagine life without me or my four-year-old Sophie. His persistence, his boyish sincerity, thawed the ice around my heart, still fragile after losing my first husband. Within three months, we were living together in my flat. He was full of plans and promises.
“Alice, love,” his eyes glimmered like deep lakes, “next month Ill graduate, and well go straight to my village. Ill introduce you to my parents, my whole family! Ill tell them youre my future wifeyoure fine with that, yeah?” He held me, and the world seemed simple.
“Alright,” I murmured, a timid hope flickering inside. Hed always said his mother was kind, welcoming, a woman who loved guests and knew how to make a home feel warm. I believed him. I wanted to believe.
The village where Mark had grown up greeted us under a quiet evening sun. His family lived close, practically shoulder to shoulder. I didnt know then about Emily, the local beauty whod been in love with Mark since childhoodeveryones pride, the perfect bride-to-be. Nor did I know about Grandpa Thomas, Marks grandfather, who lived nearby in his creaky old house and often visited his sons sauna because his own had long since sagged into disrepair. Thomas spent his days in quiet reflection, staring at the hill beyond the village where his wife rested beneath a birch tree. He knew guests were coming todayhis grandson was bringing his fiancée.
The evening before, Thomas had dropped by and found his daughter-in-law, Helen, in a foul mood. “Fallen out with Steven again?” he asked, already bracing to lecture his son.
But Helen, spotting him, spat out her frustration first: “Evening, Dad. You know our Marks planning to marry? Bringing his city girl tomorrow.”
“Aye, Steven mentioned. Well, good for himtime to settle down. Got his degree, a job. Let him start a family before life runs away from him,” Thomas mused.
“Easy for you to say,” Helen huffed, her face twisting. “But this womanthree years older than him! And a child in tow! As if there werent enough decent girls here. Our Emily, for onepretty, a nurse, hardworking. And whos this one? Whos the father? Whats her family like? Why saddle himself with someone elses burden? Hell have his own kids soon enough. Bet shes thrilled shes landed a man with a degree”
“Helen, its not our place to meddle,” Thomas tried, but she wasnt listening.
Shed been stewing for days, nursing resentment toward her son and this stranger whod stolen him from the “perfect” match. Shed hatched her quiet, poisonous plan: no effort, no lavish table, no warm smiles. Let this city woman see she wasnt wanted. Shed taken Markthat was enough.
We arrived tired but hopeful. Mark was radianta year away, and hed missed his parents, his granddad, this place. His mother opened the door. He burst in first, dropping his bag, while Sophie and I waited on the threshold.
“Mark, darling, my boy!” Helen hugged him like she might never let go, her gaze flicking over me and Sophiecold, assessing. “Home at last! Our graduate!” She stressed *our*, her eyes darting to me as if to say, *unlike some.*
“Wheres Dad? Grandpa Thomas?”
“At the sauna. Theyll be back soon. Been waiting ages for you,” she saidagain, just *you.*
Then she looked at me, sweetly venomous: “So this is Alice? With the child?” Her eyes dragged over me, slow, dismissive.
“Well, come in, wash up. Mark, show them around.”
I understood everything in an instant. Mark, oblivious, beamed and took my hand, leading me through the house. His father and grandfather returned thenSteven gruff but good-natured, Thomas with kind, tired eyes. They hugged us all with genuine warmth, impossible to fake.
“Glad youre here!” Steven boomed. “Helen, lay the tableguests are tired, hungry! And we could use a bite after the sauna too!”
The table was painfully modest. Marks brows twitchedhe knew his mothers usual spread. I barely ate, resentment thick in my throat. I simmered: *Why didnt he introduce me properly? Why let her treat me like this?*
Steven poured homemade wine, ready for a toast, but Helen cut in: “To our son! To his degree, his new job! Were so proud!”
Toast after toast*only* for Mark. As if Sophie and I didnt exist. And he laughed, chatted, said nothing. Not a word for us. I barely recognized him. I tried to justify it: *Hes missed them. He loves me.*
Only Grandpa Thomas glanced at us now and thenwarm, pitying. Then sharp, disapproving looks at Helen. He saw it all.
Sophie, well-mannered but exhausted, could hardly keep her eyes open. I asked Helen: “Could I put her to bed?”
She jerked her chin toward a cramped room. “Sleep here. Sheets are clean.”
I tucked Sophie in and heard Helens loud, performative voice outside: “Says shes tired, sleeping with the child.”
My chest ached. I lay beside Sophie, silent tears falling. *What am I doing here? Wheres the kind woman he promised? Why doesnt he see this?* If I could, Id have left that instant. But the village was pitch-black outside. I cried quietly, bruised for us both.
Mark woke me with a touch. “Alice, come to my room. Why cram in here? Ill move Sophie. Sorry Ive been distracted. Well talk tomorrowwedding plans, everything.”
His whisper was tender, but empty of understanding.
I didnt sleep. I replayed every word, every glance. Remembered my first meeting with my late husbands motherhow shed hugged me, wept with joy, become a second mum. Remembered Danielsolid, steadfast. Hed never let anyone slight me. *Im a mistake to them. Because of Sophie. But theyre wrong if they think Ill tolerate this.*
Breakfast was a charade of family warmth. They reminisced about Marks childhood. Steven slipped Sophie sweets; Helen watched, seething. Then, faux-mournful: “Well, son, carefree days are over. Now youll work hard, providing” Her stare at Sophie screamed *for someone elses child.*
I looked at Mark. He grinned, oblivious. Steven slammed the table: “Helen!”
My patience snapped. Then Mark, clueless, chirped: “Alice, Sophielets show you the village! Visit Grandpa Thomas!”
Outside, I poured out my hurt. He brushed it off*mothers jealousy, dont overthink it.* He didnt get it: I didnt need him to fight his mother. Just *one word* in our defense. But he stayed silent.
“Dont fuss, love,” he soothed. “Well leave soon. Tomorrow, Ill fish at dawnperfect catch!”
By morning, he was gone. I washed up and collided with Helen in the hall. Her face was twisted. “Mark says youre leaving. Because of *you*. When will I see my son now? Youll chain him to your skirt, make him feed you and your brat”
I listened, strangely detached. No anger leftjust clarity. I smiled, polite.
“You know, Helen, my first husband was an officer. Honest, direct. He loved me more than life. Unlike your son, he *proved* itnever let even his mother slight me or our child. His mum still treats me like her own. She bought our flat, set up another for Sophie. I have two degrees, speak three languages. After Daniel died, she lived for us. She says I need a *man*, Sophie needs a *father*. And money? Your son couldnt dream of my income. I run two shops. So your fears
