**Sand Through the Fingers**
The house was thick with silence, broken only by the crackling of logs in the hearth. Margaret Whitmore, her face etched with weary lines, watched her son with a heavy gaze as he packed the last of his things into a canvas bag. Tomorrow, the army would take him.
“Sweetheart James, tell me, what do you see in that that flighty girl?” she finally burst out, her voice trembling with suppressed pain. “She doesnt care a whit for you! Looks down her nose while youre blinded by her. Plenty of other lasses in the villageMolly, for one, the Carter girl. Sweet, hardworking, always glancing your way, but you pay her no mind. As if the sun rises and sets on Emily alone.”
James, broad-shouldered and stubborn-jawed, didnt turn. His fingers tightened the knot.
“I dont want Molly, Mum. Its always been Emily. Since we were kids. If she wont have me then I wont marry at all.”
“Shell break your heart, my boy! I know it!” Margaret choked out. “Prettyyes, the little minxbut cold as winter. She belongs in the city, not trailing her skirts through our village.”
James turned then, his gaze unreadable. “Enough. The matters closed.”
Meanwhile, in the neighbouring cottage, scented with cheap perfume and youth, Emily stood before her mirror. She traced kohl around her eyes, painted her lips red. Her reflection was bold, demandingbegging to be seen, snatched away from this dull place.
“Emily, where are you off to all dolled up?” her mother called from the kitchen. “Dancing again? And after, gallivanting till dawn? You ought to take James. A good lad, that onefinished college, sharp as a tack. Hired builders, working with his dad on a housesays its for his future wife. And hes only got eyes for you.”
Emily scoffed, admiring herself. “Your James is a clod. Building a house Youths only once, Mum! I want to live, not slave away like some plough horse. He doesnt even breathejust works. No, I wont have him. Dont ask again.”
And like a butterfly, she flitted out, leaving only a cloud of perfume behind.
That autumn was golden and bitter. James graduated, then received his call-up papers. His parents threw a modest but warm farewell. Emily came tooas neighbours must.
James, stiff in his new suit, found her in the hallway, pressed shyly against the wall.
“Em” His voice wavered. “Could I write to you? All the lads write to their girls. And I dont have one. Would you be mine? Even just on paper?”
Emily looked at him like a tiresome puppy. “Fine. Write. If Im in the mood, Ill reply.”
It was enough. His face lit with such hope she had to glance away.
For a while, she answered his neatly penned letters. Then she fled to the city for university, leaving village lifeand his lettersbehind. Her mother sighed, hoping shed return, settle with James. But Emily wouldnt hear of it.
“Ill marry a city maneducated, refined! And never set foot in that godforsaken village again!” she shrieked when her mother dared suggest James.
Fate laughed cruelly. She failed her first examironically, in English. Their village school had been understaffed; their teacher, a German émigré, knew her native tongue far better than the language she taught.
But Emily didnt mourn long. The citys lights dazzled her, and soon she found solace in Edwardcharming, cynical, a law student with a flat to himself.
She moved in swiftly, playing house: scrubbing, cooking, stealing pies from the canteen where she worked. She imagined herself his wife.
Then one rainy evening, Edward yawned: “Weve had our fun, Em. Time to go. My parents return soon.”
She left without a scene. Only later, silent tears fell.
Weeks later, nausea struck. The doctors verdict was blunt: “Too late for an abortion.”
Emily didnt consider it. This was Edwards childa piece of him. Then her mothers letter came: James was back from service. Had asked after her.
A wicked plan hatched. Return home. Play the eager fiancée. Marry James.
He welcomed her like a queen, asked no questions. That night, blushing, he showed her the house hed built.
She seduced himnot that he resisted. They married in a fortnight. James glowed. He missed the neighbours whispers, the venomous looks from Molly, even his mothers frown as Emilys belly swelled too fast.
“A strong lad!” James boasted.
The birth was in the city. Emily bribed the doctor to claim prematurity. Fate spared her againthe boy was small. “Seven months,” the doctor shrugged.
Lucas grew quiet, obedient. James adored him. His farm thrived. Emily kept house, cold inside. She still loved Edward; James was just stability. She took care not to bear his child.
Then Lucas fell into an uncovered pit. A rusted rod pierced his tiny chest.
James arrived first, lifted the rod with his own hands, carried him outweeping.
At hospital, tests revealed the truth.
“Why hide hes adopted? His bloods incompatibleAB negative. Rare. Without a donor, hell die.”
Emily crumbled. James only asked: “Whos his father? Where? Tell me!”
Edward came, pale, begging discretion. James spat: “We want nothing but your blood.”
Lucas survived.
And Emily truly saw her husbandsteadfast, selfless. The ice around her heart shattered.
That night, James admitted: “I knew. Always loved him. And youyoure mine. No other.”
A year later, their daughter Lily was born.
Now their home brims with peacehard-won, unshakable.
Lucas, despite his ordeal, became a surgeon. Lily studied journalism.
Emily tends her hearth, their familys heart. Their wealth isnt moneybut the love that once went unseen, now cherished daily.
