Already another? Evelyn might have thought what people would saythe neighbours murmured among themselves, spotting a man in the widows yard.
In the village where everyone knew each otherwho was whose godparent, who dug potatoes when, and who had divorced how many timesit was impossible to hide anything. So when Evelyn the widow brought a new man into her home, the whispers spread like dry leaves: *She couldnt stay alone, could she?* But no one said it aloudEvelyn was hardworking, respectable, and had raised two children by herself.
William appeared in their cottage in autumn. Quiet, with hands hardened by spades and hammers, and calm eyes that watched the children without judgement, as if he knew things would settle. Though Molly was nine and Thomas twelve, they barely remembered their fatherhed passed when they were just starting school.
For weeks, Molly eyed her stepfather warily.
“Mum, is he staying long?” she asked once.
“As God wills it, love. Hes a good man,” Evelyn replied, then added softly, “Im tired of doing it all alone.”
“We helped,” Thomas muttered, indignant.
“You did. But youre children. And life ought to be more than choresit should be warm, too.”
William didnt force words. He waited for them to grow used to him. Each morning, he chopped wood, mended the fence, and one evening, he brought home chicks in a basket.
“Need to rebuild the farm,” he said. “And the children should have fresh eggs.”
“Whyre you doing all this?” Molly eyed him, suspicious, though she liked the chicks.
“Because Im with you now. Not by blood, but if we live together, we share the workand the good.”
“Did my dad have chickens?”
William hesitated. Then:
“Your dad was a good man. I knew him. We worked at the mill together. He talked about you often. Youre just like him.”
Molly sat on the step, silent, watching William water the chicks. For the first time, she thought, *He isnt trying to replace Dad. He just wants to be here.*
By winter, William had begun teaching Thomas carpentry.
“This is a plane. Not like fiddling with a phonehere, your hands have to know the work.”
“I dont fiddle!” Thomas grumbled.
“Im not scolding. A mans hands make him. So does his head.”
“Why dont you ever scold?”
William smiled.
“Because it gets you nowhere. Better to explain once than shout a hundred times.”
Come spring, the village gathered to clear the woods spring. Thomas and Molly didnt want to go.
“Let the young ones do it!” Thomas huffed.
“And what are we, old men?” William laughed. “Go onwaiting for others to act wont get you far. Strength is picking up a spade even when no one makes you.”
At the clearing, the children heard the men ask William, “These yoursthe lad and the little one?” And William simply replied, “Mine. Ours now.”
Molly nudged Thomas.
“You hear that?”
“Yeah.”
“Well?”
“Dunno. Its… nice. Like he means it.”
One day, Thomas came home from school upset. Evelyn pressed until he admitted hed argued with the boys.
“What about?” she asked, blinking back tears.
“I told them Williams like a father to me. They said, So youre a stepchild, raised by a stranger. I said, Better a kind stranger than a father whos gone.”
William stayed quiet. Then he sat across from Thomas.
“I wont ask you to call me Dad. But know this, sonI wont leave you. No matter what they say.”
“Its not that I mind. Its just… hard to say Dad when youre not used to it.”
“No rush. Father is like breadyou dont swallow it half-baked. It takes time to rise.”
Two years passed. Thomas was finishing Year Eleven. The village said hed go to trade school for mechanics. One evening, they sat in the yardstars above, frogs croaking, thyme in the air.
“William,” Thomas said suddenly, “Im giving a speech. About someone whos… an example to me. I want it to be you. Can I?”
William cleared his throat and nodded.
“Just dont exaggerate.”
“I wont. Not when its from the heart.”
At graduation, Thomas spoke of “a man who wasnt there from my first steps, but became as much a father as blood could make.” Evelyn wept. And among the village wives, someone whispered:
“Tell me stepfathers arent family after that. If hearts are close, sos the bond.”
On Williams fiftieth, Molly gave him an embroidered shirt and a letter:
*Dad, thank you for the firewood, the chickens, the patience, and teaching us not to wait for kindnessbut to make it ourselves.
Youre our father not because you had to be. But because you chose to. And thats why we love you even more.*
William sat with the letter a long time. Silent.
Then he said to Evelyn,
“Well. Theyve grown. Not strangers.”
Evelyn smiled.
“Because you never treated them as such.”
To be a father, you neednt always share blood. Sometimes love, kindness, and daily deeds weigh heavier. Because family is what we make it.
