**Sand Through the Fingers**
The silence in the house was thick as treacle, broken only by the crackling of logs in the fireplace. Anne Stevens, a woman with a weary, deeply lined face, watched her son with a heavy gaze as he silently packed the last of his things into a canvas bag. Tomorrow, he was off to the army.
“Sweetheart, Victor, just tell mewhat do you see in that that flighty little thing?” she finally burst out, her voice dropping to a whisper, tight with suppressed pain. “She doesnt give two pennies for you! Looks down her nose while youre mooning over her. Plenty of other girls in the village, for goodness sake! Take Nancy, for examplebright, hardworking, clearly fancies you. But no, you barely glance her way. Like the sun rises and sets on that Julie.”
Victor, a tall, broad-shouldered lad with a stubborn jaw and kind, currently stormy eyes, didnt turn around. His fingers deftly tied the knot.
“Dont want Nancy, Mum. Made up my mind. Loved Julie since we were kids. If she wont have me then I wont marry at all. No point arguing. Let it rest.”
“Shell break your heart, Victor, I just know it!” His mother sniffed. “Pretty? Oh, fine, Ill admitdevilishly so. But cold as a winters morning, flighty as a sparrow. Belongs in the city, not batting her lashes around our village.”
Victor finally turned. His expression was an impenetrable wall.
“Enough. Topics closed.”
Meanwhile, in the house next doorreeking of cheap perfume and youthful defiancethe mirror reflected a very different scene. Julie, finishing her nightly ritual, applied the final touches: smoky eyeliner, bold red lips. Her look was a declaration, a demand to be seen, swept away, taken far from this dull little world.
“Julie, where on earth are you off to, dolled up like that?” her mother called from the kitchen. “Dancing again? And then gallivanting till dawn? Couldnt you invite Victor? Solid lad, that one. Finished trade school, no slouch. Hired workers to help his dad build a housesays its for his future wife. And hes only got eyes for you, poor sod.”
Julie snorted, twisting before the mirror, admiring herself.
“Your Victors a proper bumpkin, Mum. ‘Building a house’youths for living! For fun! He just toils away like an ox, never goes anywhere, never lets loose. Whats the point? Dont want him, hear me? Not in a million years. Drop it.”
And with that, she flitted out like a butterfly, leaving behind only a cloud of perfume and unease.
That autumn was golden and bitter. Victor graduated, then got his draft papers. His parents threw a modest but heartfelt farewell. Julie and her mother camenearest neighbours, after all.
Victor, stiff in an ill-fitting new suit, waited for his moment. His heart hammered in his throat. He cornered Julie in the hallway, where she leaned against the wall with practised nonchalance.
“Julie” he began, then his voice betrayed him, wobbling. “Can I write to you? All the lads write to their girls. And I dont have one. Maybe you could be mine? Just on paper?”
Julie looked at him with something like pity, as if he were a sweet but tiresome puppy. She considered for a second.
“Fine. Write if you like. If Im in the mood, Ill reply. If notdont whinge. Deal?”
It was enough. His face lit up like a sunrise, so bright Julie had to glance away. It almost made her uncomfortable.
For a while, she answered his letters, penned in neat soldiers script. But after school, she bolted for the city, chasing a teaching degree. Grey village life vanished behind her, along with those naïve army letters. The replies stopped abruptly.
Her mother sighed, secretly hoping shed come to her senses, wait for Victor, settle downstudy remotely if she must. But Julie wouldnt hear of it.
“Ill graduate, marry some polished city bloke, and never set foot in this godforsaken village again!” she shrieked during one hysterical row.
Fate, however, had other plans. She bombed her first examcomposition. The bitter irony? No one could blame the village schools patchy education, where one frazzled teacher juggled English and French, excelling in neither.
But Julie wasnt about to sulk. The city glittered, and soon she found solace in Edwarda charming, cynical law student with a flat to himself while his parents worked up north.
She moved in swiftly. To avoid mooching, she took a job at a factory canteenpushing a trolley of pasties, enduring the workers leers.
At Edwards, she played house: scrubbed the neglected rooms, cooked hearty stews, smuggled pasties home. She fancied herself a near-wife, dreaming of babies, intoxicated by this glossy city life Edward represented.
It lasted almost a year. Then, one rainy evening, Edward lounged on the sofa and said flatly:
“Julie, were done. Over it. Move out. Parents are coming back.”
Something inside her snapped and froze. But pride and city-taught hardness kept her composed. Without scenes, she packed her case and left for a friends. Only when the door shut did the silent tears fall.
Weeks later, nausea struck. The doctors verdict was blunt:
“Pregnant. Too late for termination.”
Abortion never crossed her mind. This was Edwards childa piece of him. Then came her mothers letter, mentioning Victors return from the army. Asking after her.
A desperate, wicked plan hatched. Rush home. Fake joy at her “fiancés” return. Marry Victor. If notat least have the baby near family.
Victor welcomed her like royalty. Asked no questions. His love was blind, forgiving, exactly what she needed. That very night, burning with pride, he showed her the house hed built for hersolid, smelling of fresh timber and hope.
She barely needed to seduce himhe was already hers. They wed in a fortnight. Victor glowed. He noticed nothing: not neighbours hints, not Nancys venomous smirks, not even his own mothers frown as the brides belly swelled suspiciously fast.
“A proper little bruiser!” Victor boasted. “Growing by the hour!”
She bribed a doctor to claim premature birth. Fate relentedthe boy was small (just six pounds). The doctor took the envelope: “Seven months, clear enough.”
*There is a God*, Julie thought, drifting under sedation, relief washing over her.
Max grew quiet and obedient. Victor adored himtook him to the farm, perched him on tractors, taught him mechanics. Even the sceptical mother-in-law melted, spoiling him rotten.
Victor worked tirelessly. His farm thrived. He came home exhausted but happy.
Julie kept house, raising Max. Outwardly, the perfect family. Inside, her heart stayed cold toward Victor. She clung to her love for Edward, seeing Victor merely as reliable, dull security. She played the doting wife but avoided more childrenkeeping herself, in her mind, half-faithful to the past.
But secrets always surface. Brutally. Suddenly. Irrevocably.
Max was eight. A sunny day. Playing in a friends yard, where a forgotten metal spike lay in an unfinished cellar pit.
No one saw him fall. No scream. Just sudden silence, then other boys shrieks.
Julie nearly lost her mind. Her Max lay at the pits bottom, a rusty spike jutting from his small chest.
Victor arrived first, moving like lightning. With a medic, he descended, carefully freed the spike, and carried Max up. Julie saw thenher unyielding Victor, weeping as he cradled their son.
At the hospital, Max needed urgent blood. Tests were taken.
Thenthe thunderclap.
“Why conceal hes adopted?” The doctors voice was ice. “Your blood doesnt match. Hes AB negativerare. Without a donor in twelve hours, hell die.”
The world shrank to the operating room doors. Julie didnt care if Victor left her. Only Max mattered.
Suddenly, Victor gripped her shoulders. Not anger in his eyesdesperation.
“Whos his father? Address, nameanything! Ill beg on my knees! Just *tell me*!”
Sobbing, she spat out Edwards details. Victor moved fastan army mate in the police had Edwards work number within an hour.
Edward, now a lawyer, arrived pale and panicked, begging discretion from his current wife.
Victor stared out the window.
“We want nothing from you. Just your blood.”
Max survived. No lasting damage.
And Juliefor the first time, truly *saw
