25April2025
Today I sat by Eleanors empty grave and felt nothing stir within meno tears, no sighs. The silence was heavy, as if the world itself had refused to sound a single note. Tessa, my neighbour, leaned in and whispered, You see, I told you he never loved Eleanor. I told her to hush; it mattered little now. Their children are left orphaned, and Iwhat kind of father can I be?
Lily tried to comfort her, muttering, Soon hell marry Katie. I asked, Why Katie? What could she offer him that Eleanor didnt? Lily laughed, Katies love is already gone; she has a husband and a settled life. She even knew a detail that even I had forgotten: Katies husband works in the front line of the national service, so she wont be tempted by a wandering farmer like me. Grace, Lily continued, is still pining after her Martin. Theyll spin their own tragic romance soon enough.
Eleanors funeral was a quiet affair. The children clutched each others hands tightly. Michael and Pauline were only eight when their mother married me because, they say, she was pregnant. Whether love was ever there between us is a question none of the village folk ever answered. Rumour had it that Eleanors pregnancy forced my hand, and that her first child, little Clara, was born seven months early and died soon after. Then, for years, we had no children of our own.
I earned the nickname Birch among the localsfor I was stern, laconic, and stingy with affection. It seemed everyone knew that, except perhaps Eleanor herself. Yet somewhere, perhaps in the hidden corners of my heart, I prayed for a miracle. It came, and the heavens gave us twins: Pauline and Michael. Somehow the boy inherited his mothers tenderness, always eager to help with chores, while the girl took after mesilent, wary, and quick to lock herself behind a thousand imagined doors.
I would often retreat to the barn, mending tools, and Pauline would hover, listening as if I were recounting the secrets of the world. Michael, meanwhile, stayed by his mothers side, sweeping the floor, fetching water with his tiny bucket, and offering any help he could. Eleanor adored both children, though she never quite understood Paulines coldness. She adored Michael with a fierceness that surprised even me.
When Eleanors health finally failed, she called Michael to her bedside. My boy, Im going soon. Youll be the head of this house. Look after your sistershes weaker, shell need your protection.
Will Father protect us? Michael asked, his voice trembling.
I dont know, son. Life will tell, Eleanor replied, a faint smile touching her lips.
Please dont die, he sobbed.
If it were up to me she whispered, and in the dim light of dawn, she was gone.
I stood beside her, gripping her hand, my face a mask of stoneno tears, no wordsjust a hollow ache that settled deep in my chest. The world seemed to tilt back into its old rhythm. Pauline stepped up, trying to keep the house together, though she was still too young to manage everything. Natalie, my sister, came often with her husband Victor and their lively brood to lend a hand.
Uncle, will Father marry again? Pauline asked one evening as we sat over tea.
I have no idea what occupies his mind, Natalie replied, smiling softly. Hell never tell us.
Natalies family was a picture of domestic bliss, and Pauline, ever hopeful, pressed, If anything happens, will you take us in?
Dont think of it, Natalie warned. Your father loves you both and would never let anyone hurt you.
Meanwhile, gossip swirled through the village like autumn leaves in a gust. Some swore that my old flame, Grace, was back on the market, whispering, Shes gone mad for me again, forgotten her own family. Others scoffed, What a foolish old hen. The collective farm chairman, Max Leonard, often shooed the chatter away, Youre all stirring up trouble you dont understand.
Grace and I had once shared a fierce love, the kind that inspires ballads. I was dispatched to a distant county to aid struggling farms, and while I was away, she tangled herself with Martin Cherry. Upon my return, I learned of the affair and confronted Martin, leaving him with a bruised cheek and a shattered reputation. Grace married him soon after, a man of wild ways who drank and roamed taverns, leaving her weeping in the night. I, a sober, hard-working man, kept my mouth shut, letting the past drift away.
Soon enough, the villagers began to whisper that I was turning my affection toward Eleanor once more. They said Eleanor blossomed like a bluebell, bright and impossible not to notice. Love does strange things to people, they muttered.
Eleanor had loved me long before, in silent admiration, never daring to speak of Grace. Life, however, has its ironies. We met, we walked, and we eventually signed the marriage register at the parish council. The wedding was modest; only Natalie stayed by my side from my side of the family, while Eleanors elderly mother, who had given birth to her late, lingered in the background. The villages chairman, Victor Prokhorov, watched over us, though his own daughter, a striking yet unmarried woman named Oksana, never found a husband. The townsfolk pitied Eleanor, especially after she wed a man they believed didnt love her. Hell spend his whole life tormenting her, sighed old Mrs. Penelope Brindle, shaking her head.
But, oddly enough, I remained faithful. The villagers swore that no one could hide their secrets forever in a closeknit community. Fifteen years passed with Eleanor, and not once did we argue. Then, last winter, a terrible illness struck her, a disease the doctors said was incurable.
One afternoon, as I trudged home from the fields, Grace appeared at the gate, a tray of freshly baked scones in her hands. Ed, may I pop in for a moment? Ive brought treats for the children, she chirped.
No, Grace, thank you. Natalie already baked some yesterday, I replied, trying to keep my voice even.
She persisted, Its from the heart, Ed.
Im sure your sisters heart is just as warm, I said.
She then pressed, Lets meet at the mill when it gets dark.
Why now? I asked.
She stared at me, Did you forget everything that ever was between us?
My past is a tangle of weeds, I muttered. I love my children. I love Eleanor.
Its too late for her now, she whispered.
Love doesnt simply die, I answered.
You never loved her. You married her just to spite me, she accused.
Grace, go home, I said quietly, and walked away toward the door where my children waited. Grace stood alone on the village lane, the wind tugging at her coat.
Years later, the children grew. Aunt Natalie still visited, though now she knew, without doubt, that I was a oneheart man.
Polly, she greeted my daughter as she stepped through the doorway, I hear youre seeing Graham Vorn.
Yes, Polly replied, a faint blush on her cheeks. What of it?
Just be careful, Natalie warned. Youre not a little girl anymore.
Pollys eyes flashed, I love him, Aunt Nat. I love him for life.
Natalie smiled, You may be certain, but what about Graham?
Pollys voice hardened, If he betrays me, Ill never love anyone again.
Then Ill believe that, Natalie said softly.
One evening, Michael and Polly waited for me after work.
Dads running late again, Michael muttered.
Its Friday, Polly replied.
He always visits Mothers grave on Wednesdays, Fridays, and weekends, Michael said, eyebrows raised.
How do you know? Polly asked, surprised.
Youre a fool if you think I dont feel his souls weight, I replied, eyes distant.
We walked slowly to the cemetery, following a hidden path through the garden.
There, Polly whispered, pointing at my hunched figure near the old stone.
I listened as I heard my own voice, faint and trembling, speaking to someone unseen:
My dear Eleanor, Ive lived a quiet life. Soon Pauline will be wed, and Ive gathered a modest dowry with Natalies help. Forgive me, love, for the lack of tender words in life; my heart has spoken louder than my tongue.
I lingered at the gate, feeling the weight of years pressing down. Michael watched, his eyes glistening, while Polly stared at the silhouette of a man who had once been her father, a man now reduced to quiet remorse.
