Came Home Early: When My Husband Chose a Spotless House Over His Pregnant Wife’s Wellbeing – A British Wife’s Unexpected Homecoming Turns into a Domestic Drama

Author Harlan CovingtonReading 10 minViews 2

Came Home Early

Are you at the bus stop? My husbands voice leapt to a high pitch. Right now? Why didnt you say? We agreed youd be back on Thursday!

I wanted to surprise you, I frowned. Jack, arent you happy? Im exhausted, honestly. Come and meet me!

Wait! he suddenly yelled. Dont come up yet. I mean, do, but Emily, listen, theres absolutely nothing in the house. I finished off everything last night. Tell you what: pop into the 24-hour shop, the one round the corner, and pick up some beef. Good stuff if you can.

The heavy bags pulled on my shoulder so sharply that I yelped. A familiar sharp pain shot down my back, radiating through my aching spine. I carefully set my shopping down on the cracked pavement of the bus stop.

I sighed, pressing my palm to the top of my stomach. The baby fidgeted in protest. Six months pregnant hardly a joke especially when you decide to make a surprise visit home to your husband, leaving your parents three days earlier than planned.

Id missed him so much, Id spent the last sixty miles on the coach actually counting lamp posts.

I wondered what Jack was up to. He surely had no idea I was only ten minutes walk from our flat.

The walk to our building felt endless.

The bags, stuffed with goodies from my parents jars of homemade jam, thick bacon, heavy apples weighed a tonne.

After about fifty yards, I realised I wasnt going to make it. My back was going to give out.

I pulled out my phone and rang my husband.

Jack, hi, I whispered when he finally answered.

Emily? Whats wrong? Whats happened? He sounded terrified.

Nothings wrong, silly. Ive come home! Im standing at the bus stop outside our building. Please come down and help me. The bags are impossible, Mums packed so much

There was a strange pause on the line. I even checked the screen to see if wed been cut off.

Youre at the bus stop? Jacks voice shot up again. Now? Why didnt you say? I thought Thursday

I wanted to surprise you, I repeated, frowning. Jack, arent you pleased? Im knackered. Please come!

Wait! he shouted suddenly. Dont come. I mean, do, but theres nothing to eat here. I cleared everything out last night. Can you just nip to the late-night shop round the corner? Get some beef, the nice stuff.

I said, Jack, are you hearing me? Im six months pregnant, standing in the street with two huge bags! My backs killing me! Meat? Theres potatoes and eggs at home. Can you just meet me? I want to eat something and go to bed.

No, you dont get it, he gabbled, talking over me. I want it to be perfect for you, thats all! Whats the harm? The shops just there, pick up some beef and some new potatoes ours have gone all shrivelled. Ask someone to help, or bring them in a bit at a time Please! Its for us. Ill get everything ready here.

I stared at my sore, red hands, gouged by the bag handles. A hot, bitter feeling rose inside.

Jack, are you serious? I said, my voice shaking. You want your pregnant wife to go shopping for beef because you fancy cooking? Cant you just come down and get it yourself?

Ive started you know prepping! If I go out now, itll ruin the surprise. Em, please, Ive been waiting for this. Just get eight hundred grams of beef, and a small sack of potatoes the kind in the net bags. Ill be waiting!

He hung up. I gazed at the darkened phone screen. I couldnt wrap my head round it. I wanted to burst into tears, right there at the deserted bus stop under the cold streetlight.

Instead of a hug and a warm bed I had a trip to the supermarkets meat aisle to look forward to.

Maybe he really is planning something special? I thought.

With a sigh, I picked up my bags and, dragging my feet, headed to the shop.

***

I pushed the trolley up and down the aisles, catching the sleepy cashiers sympathetic stare. The beef was heavy, the bag of potatoes even heavier. By the time I left, my arms had gone numb. My fingers were like stiff hooks.

My phone rang again.

Did you get it? Jack sounded chipper.

Yes, I gritted out. Im at the front door. Let me in.

Stop! Dont come up! Jack half-squealed. Wait outside, on the bench. Ten minutes, thats all.

Are you joking? I practically shouted, ignoring the few people passing by. Jack, Im going to give birth out here, Im so angry! Ten minutes? My feet are swelling, I cant even stand!

The surprise isnt ready! he insisted. If you come up now, itll all be for nothing. Just sit out here and get some fresh air. Five minutes, Em, I swear! Ill hang up or I wont get it all finished!

I collapsed onto the bench by our front door. The bags crashed down beside me. I wanted to chuck the stupid packet of beef through our third-floor window.

Ten minutes passed. Then twenty. I sat clutching my bump, my insides churning. I pictured opening the front door what would be there? Flowers? Candles? Maybe a violinist in the corner?

Nothing could make up for how hed left me, in my state, waiting outside after a sleepless night.

At minute thirty-five, I heard the door open.

Jack dashed out looking a mess: his T-shirt was inside out, sweat on his brow, hair sticking up all over.

Oh, youre here! he grinned awkwardly, grabbing the bags. Why the long face? Look at the weather oh, right. Lets get you in.

Why are you soaked? And why do you reek of cleaning products? I asked, struggling up from the bench, gripping the railing.

Youll see! he said cheerily, bouncing towards the lift.

Upstairs, Jack flung the door open, as if expecting applause.

I walked into the flat, greeted by a sharp hit of bleach and some cheap ocean breeze air freshener.

I checked the sitting room. Then the kitchen. Then the bathroom.

The flat was tidy. Strangely empty.

Things that usually sat on chairs were gone. The rug had been hoovered (a few damp patches still visible), shelves dusted.

My ornaments were now huddled together in a corner.

Well? Jack beamed fit to burst. What do you think? Surprise!

I turned to him, slowly.

Thats it? I asked quietly.

What do you mean, thats it? Jack spluttered. Emily, look! Ive been scrubbing for hours! I mopped everywhere even under the sofa! I cleaned the dishes, made the toilet shine. I wanted you to come home and just relax, nothing to worry about. I rushed around like a lunatic while you well, you were at the shop.

A lump rose in my throat.

You made me go shopping so you could mop the floor? I choked, fighting back tears. You couldnt fetch me at the stop because you were cleaning?

Well, yes! Jack threw his hands up. Youre always moaning I dont help out enough. I wanted to show you I can! You were early, I was still finishing. I had to stall you! And now, instead of thank you, you look like Ive spat in your breakfast.

Jack, are you daft? I snapped, my voice cracking. I dont care about your floors! My back was agony, the bags weighed a ton. Im pregnant! Do you know what that means? Preg-nant! I wanted you to hold my hand, get me home, not wave a mop about in here!

Jacks face turned beetroot red. He hurled the cloth hed been holding into the sink.

Oh, here we go! he roared. Youre never happy, are you! I got up at five cleaning, trying to make a surprise, and all I get is shouting! Did you see how spotless it is? We didnt have it this tidy on our wedding day!

I dont want spotless with this catch! I gasped, choking on my own anger. You left me on a bench in the cold for half an hour! My legs are killing me! You had me buy meat and potatoes when I could barely walk. Thats not a surprise, thats cruelty!

Cruelty? Jack started pacing the kitchen, waving his arms. Sorry Im not the perfect husband! Anyone else would be thrilled clean house, husband ready to cook. But you, its always about you! Oh, my bump, oh, my back. Maybe Im tired too! I spent the night awake thinking how to make you happy!

I buried my face in my hands.

You dont understand, I sobbed. You dont get it at all. You put a sparkling skirting board above my comfort.

Whats it got to do with a skirting board? Jack shouted again, smacking the table. You came back early! You ruined the surprise! If youd come Thursday like you said, it would have been perfect you walk into a spotless home, everything lovely. But no, you have to show up in the middle of the night! And somehow Im the villain now?

He stormed out, slamming the bedroom door.

The baby gave another kick. I slumped onto a chair, staring at the beef Jack hadnt bothered putting in the fridge. I felt physically sick.

After ten minutes, the kitchen door creaked open.

Want me to make that beef? he muttered. Or are you not eating just to spite me now?

Leave it, Jack, I whispered, not turning around. Just leave me alone. I want some sleep.

Fine! he snapped, banging the door again.

I stood up and, wobbling slightly, went to the bathroom.

I stared at my reflection: pale, with shadows under my eyes, hair all over the place. I remembered the coach journey and imagining Jack greeting me, pulling me close and saying Thank God youre home.

Yeah, right. What a welcome.

When Id washed my face and left the bathroom, the row flared up again.

Jack yelled at me some more, then chucked a slab of beef at my feet.

I left the flat right then lucky I hadnt unpacked.

Back to my parents I went.

***
The entire family tried to talk me out of a divorce Jacks parents, my sister-in-law, all the relatives. Jack himself kept calling, begging me to come back.

But Id made up my mind: I didnt want a husband who thought scrubbing the floor mattered more than the health of our own child. The divorce would go ahead.

I Know Best – What on earth is going on? – Dimitri wearily crouched before his daughter, inspecting the rosy patches on her cheeks. – Again… Four-year-old Sophie stood in the middle of the room, patient and oddly grown-up, already used to these check-ups, her parents’ worried faces, endless ointments and pills. Maria approached and sat beside her husband, gently tucking a strand of hair behind their daughter’s ear. – These medicines aren’t working. At all. May as well be giving her water. And the doctors at the clinic… they aren’t doctors, more like who knows what. This is the third new treatment, and it’s made no difference. Dimitri stood and rubbed the bridge of his nose. Outside, the world was grey—the day promised to be as dull as all the others before it. They hurriedly packed up—Sophie bundled in her warm coat—and half an hour later, they were seated in his mother’s flat. Olga fussed, shook her head, stroked her granddaughter’s back. – So little, and already on so many medicines. It’s such a strain on her body, – she perched Sophie on her knee, and the little girl nestled close—familiar comfort. – It’s heartbreaking. – We wish we didn’t have to give them, – Maria sat at the edge of the sofa, fingers intertwined. – But the allergy won’t go away. We’ve eliminated everything—absolutely everything. She only eats the most basic foods, and still, the rash persists. – And what do the doctors say? – Nothing concrete. They can’t pinpoint it. We do tests, take samples, and the result… – Maria waved a hand – this result, here, on her cheeks. Olga sighed and smoothed Sophie’s collar. – Hopefully she’ll outgrow it. Kids sometimes do. But for now, no comfort. Dimitri gazed at his daughter. Small and thin. Big, thoughtful eyes. He stroked her hair, and memories flickered—snatching pastries from the kitchen as a child, begging for sweets, eating his mum’s jam straight from the jar… But his daughter? Boiled veg. Boiled meat. Water. No fruit, no treats, no proper children’s food. Four years old, on a diet stricter than some ulcer patients. – We don’t know what else there is to cut, – he spoke quietly. – Her diet’s nearly nothing as it is. The drive home was silent. Sophie dozed in the backseat; Dimitri checked her in the mirror every so often. At least she wasn’t scratching. – Mum called, – Maria spoke up. – She wants Sophie next weekend. She’s got tickets for the puppet theatre, wants to take her. – Theatre? – Dimitri changed gear. – That’ll be nice. Good distraction. – I thought so too. She could use it. …On Saturday, Dimitri parked outside his mother-in-law’s and carried Sophie from the car seat. She blinked sleepily, rubbing her eyes—woken too early. He picked her up, and she snuggled into his neck, warm and weightless as a sparrow. Mrs Taylor appeared on the porch, arms thrown wide as if welcoming a shipwreck survivor. – Oh, my dear, my little ray of sunshine, – she scooped up Sophie, hugging her close to her vast chest. – So pale, so thin. Her cheeks are hollow. You lot have worn her out with your diets, you’re ruining her. Dimitri thrust his hands in his pockets, holding back irritation. It was always the same. – We’re doing it for her sake. There’s a reason, you know. – What sort of sake? – Mrs Taylor pursed her lips, inspecting Sophie as though—just returned from a prison camp. – Skin and bone. Some childhood—she should be growing, not starved. She carried Sophie inside, not looking back, leaving the door to click shut. Dimitri lingered at the gate, a sensation nagging at the edge of his mind, some half-formed hunch that vanished like mist. He rubbed his forehead, waited one more minute listening to the quiet of this foreign yard, then sighed and returned to the car. A weekend without their daughter—a strange, nearly-forgotten feeling. On Saturday, he and Maria trawled the supermarket aisles, piling up groceries for the week. At home, he spent three hours fixing the leaky bathroom tap. Maria emptied wardrobes and packed old things into bags for the tip. The usual chores, but the absence of Sophie’s voice made the flat feel wrong, too empty. In the evening, they ordered pizza—the mozzarella and basil kind, forbidden to Sophie. Opened a bottle of red, sat talking about nothing much—work, their postponed holiday plans, the never-ending renovations. – It’s nice, – Maria said, then paused, biting her lip. – I mean… you know. Just quiet. Peaceful. – I know, – Dimitri covered her hand with his. – I miss her too. But we needed the break. On Sunday, he went to pick up their daughter just before sunset. The garden glowed orange beneath old apple trees. Mrs Taylor’s place, in the evening light, seemed almost cosy. Dimitri stepped from the car, pushed open the gate—its hinges groaned—and stopped short. Sophie was sitting on the porch. Mrs Taylor beside her, radiating sheer happiness. In her hands was a pastry. Big, golden, shiny with butter. And Sophie was devouring it. Cheeks smeared, crumbs on her chin, eyes sparkling—happier than he’d seen in ages. For a moment, Dimitri simply stared. Then a surge of hot anger swept up from his chest. He strode forward, snatched the pastry away. – What’s this supposed to be?! Mrs Taylor jumped, shrank back, her face turning red from neck to hairline. She flailed her hands, desperate to wave away his fury. – It’s just a tiny piece! No harm done, honestly. Dimitri wasn’t listening. He scooped Sophie up—she went quiet, clutching his coat in fright—and headed for the car. Buckled her in, hands trembling with rage. Sophie gazed at him, lips quivering, about to cry. – It’s okay, darling, – he stroked her head, forcing his voice to sound calm. – Just wait here for Daddy, alright? He shut the door and marched back to the house. Mrs Taylor was rooted to the porch, fiddling with her dressing gown, blotchy and pale. – Dimi, you don’t understand… – I don’t understand?! – he stopped short, exploding. – Six months! Six months, and we couldn’t work out what was wrong with our daughter! Tests, allergy screenings—do you have any idea what it all cost us? The stress, sleepless nights?! Mrs Taylor edged back toward the door. – I was only trying to help… – Help?! – Dimitri advanced. – She’s been on boiled chicken and water! We’ve cut out every single possible allergen! And you—you secretly feed her fried pastries? – I was building up her immunity, – Mrs Taylor suddenly bristled, chin raised. – A little at a time, to get her body used to it. One bit more and it would’ve cleared up, thanks to me! I know what I’m doing—I’ve raised three kids! Dimitri looked at her, unrecognising. This woman he’d endured for years, for his wife, for peace—she was poisoning his child. On purpose. Convinced she knew better than any doctor. – Three kids, – he repeated quietly. Mrs Taylor paled. – Doesn’t mean they’re all the same. Sophie isn’t your daughter—she’s mine. And you won’t see her again. – What?! – Mrs Taylor clutched the rail. – You have no right! – I do. He walked to the car, shouts erupting behind him. But Dimitri didn’t look back. Started the engine. In the rear-view, his mother-in-law’s frantic silhouette flared behind the gate as he pulled away. At home, Maria met them in the hallway. One look—his face, their tearful daughter—and she understood. – What happened? Dimitri explained. Briefly, coldly, all emotion spent outside. Maria listened, face hardening. Then she picked up her phone. – Mum. Yes, he told me. How could you?! Dimitri got Sophie into the bath—to wash away the pastry and tears. In the next room, Maria’s voice—sharp, unfamiliar—rang out. She scolded her mother as he’d never heard before. Her words finished loud and clear: “Until we’ve sorted the allergy—no visits, Mum.” Two months passed… Sunday lunch at Olga’s was now a tradition. Today, a sponge cake with cream and strawberries sat on the table. And Sophie was eating it herself, big spoon, getting cream everywhere. Her cheeks—perfectly clear. – Would you believe it, – Olga shook her head. – Sunflower oil. Such a rare allergy. – Doctor said it happens to one in a thousand, – Maria spread butter on her bread. – The moment we cut it out and switched to olive oil—her rash vanished in two weeks. Dimitri couldn’t stop watching his daughter. Rosy cheeks, shining eyes, cream on her nose. A happy child, finally able to eat real food—cakes, biscuits, everything made without sunflower oil. Turns out, that’s a lot. Relations with his mother-in-law stayed chilly. Mrs Taylor called, apologised, cried down the phone. Maria kept her replies short and brisk. Dimitri didn’t speak to her at all. Sophie reached for more cake, and Olga moved the plate closer. – Go on, love. Eat as much as you like. Dimitri leaned back in his chair. Outside, rain fell; inside, warmth and the scent of baking. His daughter was better. Nothing else mattered.

— Whose little girl are you, love? ..— Come on, let me carry you home, you’ll warm up. I lifted her in my arms and brought her to my cottage. Before I knew it, the neighbours gathered round—news travels fast in an English village. — Good grief, Anna, where did you find her? — And what are you going to do with her? — Anna, have you lost your senses? What will you feed the child with? The floorboard creaked underfoot—reminding me yet again to fix it, though I never got round to it. I sat at my kitchen table and took out my old diary. The pages had yellowed like autumn leaves, but the ink still held my thoughts. Outside, the wind howled, and the birch tapped the window, as if asking to come in. — What’s all the commotion, then? — I said to it. — Patience, spring will come soon enough. It’s funny to talk to trees, but when you live alone, the world around you feels alive. After those awful times I was left a widow—my dear Stephen lost to war. I still keep his last letter, creased and faded from countless readings. He promised he’d return soon, said he loved me, that we’d be happy… But a week later, I learned the truth. We never had children, perhaps just as well—there was nothing to feed them with back then. The village head, Nicholas Evans, always comforted me: — Don’t fret, Anna. You’re still young, you’ll marry again. — I won’t. — I replied firmly. — I loved once, that is enough. I worked at the farm from dawn till dusk. Foreman Peter would shout: — Anna Evans, off home with you! It’s late as it is! — I’ll manage, — I’d say. — As long as my hands still work, my spirit stays young. My little home was modest—a stubborn goat called Maggie, five hens to do a better job of waking me than any rooster. My neighbour Claudia would often joke: — Are you sure you’re not a turkey? Why do your hens always start up before everyone else’s? I kept my garden—potatoes, carrots, beetroot. Everything from the land itself. In autumn I’d preserve pickles, tomatoes, marinated mushrooms. In winter, opening a jar felt like bringing summer into the house. I remember that day as if it were yesterday. March was wet and cold. The drizzle lasted all morning, and by evening it froze. I went to the woods for firewood—needed fuel for the stove. After the storms, there was plenty of deadfall, just waiting to be gathered. Arms loaded, I headed home past the old bridge, when I heard someone crying. At first I thought it was the wind playing tricks. But no—it was a child, sobbing. I scrambled down beneath the bridge, and there she was—a little girl, muddy and soaked, dress torn, eyes full of fear. When she saw me she fell silent, shivering like a leaf. — Whose little girl are you? — I asked quietly, so as not to scare her more. She didn’t answer, just blinked at me, lips blue and hands swollen red from cold. — Frozen stiff, — I muttered. — Let’s get you home and warm you up. I scooped her up—lighter than a feather—wrapped her in my old scarf, held her close. And all the while, I wondered what kind of mother leaves a child under a bridge. I couldn’t fathom it. The wood I’d gathered was abandoned—it didn’t matter now. All the way home, the girl stayed silent, clutching my neck with her icy fingers. I carried her inside, and the neighbours were there in a flash—news spreads like wildfire in our village. Claudia was the first to burst in: — Oh heavens, Anna, where did you find her? — Under the bridge, — I replied. — Clearly abandoned. — Dear God… — Claudia gasped. — What are you going to do? — What else? She’ll stay with me. — Anna, have you gone mad? — Old Maude croaked. — How will you provide for a child? — Whatever God gives, I’ll make do, — I said. First thing, I stoked the stove and set water to heat. The girl was covered in bruises, skin-and-bones, her ribs sticking out. I bathed her in warm water, dressed her in my old jumper—no children’s clothes in my house. — Are you hungry? — I asked. She nodded shyly. I gave her leftover vegetable stew and thick slices of bread. She ate hungrily, yet her manners showed she wasn’t a stray, but rather raised in a home. — What’s your name? She stayed silent. Either afraid or unable to speak. I put her in my bed to sleep, curling up myself on the bench. I woke several times through the night to check on her. She slept, curled tight, whimpering in her dreams. At first light, I went to the parish hall—to report my find. The head, John Stephens, just spread his hands: — No word of any missing child. Maybe someone from the city left her… — What do we do now? — By law, she belongs in an orphanage. I’ll ring the council today. My heart ached: — Wait, John. Give me time—perhaps her parents will turn up. Meanwhile, let her stay here. — Anna Evans, think carefully… — There’s nothing more to think about. It’s decided. I named her Mary—after my mother. I hoped her real parents might turn up, but no one ever did. Perhaps that’s for the best—I grew to love her with all my heart. It was hard at first—she never spoke, only her eyes searching my home as if looking for something. She woke up screaming, trembling with fear. I held her close, stroked her head: — It’s alright, sweetheart. Everything will be alright now. I stitched clothes for her out of old dresses—dyed in all colours, blue, green, red. Not fancy, but cheerful. Claudia was amazed: — Anna, you’ve got golden hands! I thought you only knew how to handle a spade. — Life teaches you both sewing and mothering, — I replied, secretly glad for her praise. Not all in the village were understanding, especially old Maude—whenever she saw us, she’d cross herself: — No good can come of this, Anna. Bringing in a foundling—asking for trouble. No doubt her mother was bad—that’s why she abandoned the child. The apple never falls far from the tree… — Enough, Maude! — I snapped. — Other people’s sins aren’t for you to judge. That child is mine now, end of. Even the farm head frowned at first: — Think about it, Anna Evans, maybe she’d be better off in the orphanage? They’d feed and clothe her properly. — Who will love her, though? — I challenged. — There are enough orphans there already. He shrugged but soon helped—sometimes sent milk, sometimes grains. Bit by bit, Mary grew brighter. At first one word at a time, then sentences. I remember her first laugh—I was reaching up to hang curtains and toppled off my chair. Sitting there rubbing my back, she burst out laughing—clear and bright. My pain vanished instantly in her joy. She started helping in the garden. I’d give her a little hoe—she’d step beside me, copying everything, more stamping down weeds than pulling them. But I never scolded, just delighted to see her full of life. Then tragedy struck—Mary came down with a terrible fever. Burning up, raving. I ran to our local medic, Simon Peters: — For heaven’s sake, help! He only spread his hands: — Medicine? All I’ve got for the whole village are three aspirin. Wait—they may send more next week. — Next week? — I cried. — She might not last till morning! I ran to the town—nine miles of mud. Shoes ruined, feet sore, but I made it. The young doctor there, Michael Alexander, looked at me—filthy and soaked: — Wait here. He brought out medicine, explained how to use it: — No pay needed, — he said. — Just get the girl better. For three days I never left her bedside, mumbling prayers, changing compresses. On the fourth day, her fever broke and she quietly said: — Mum, I want water. Mum… She called me mum for the first time. I wept—joy, relief, everything at once. She wiped away my tears with her little hand: — Mum, why are you crying? Does it hurt? — No, — I replied. — I’m just happy, sweetheart. After her illness, she was changed—loving, chatty. Soon she started school—the teacher couldn’t praise her enough: — Such a bright girl, picks up everything instantly! The villagers grew used to her; even old Maude thawed, dropping off pies for us. She grew fond of Mary after the child helped stoke her fire during a bitter cold snap. The old woman was laid up and hadn’t prepared wood. Mary volunteered: — Mum, let’s go to Maude’s? She must be so cold alone. They became friends—the old grump and my little girl. Maude shared stories, taught her knitting, never spoke again of foundlings or bad blood. Time passed. Mary was nine when she first mentioned the bridge. We sat together in the evening; I was darning socks, she rocking her homemade doll. — Mum, do you remember how you found me? My heart jumped, but I kept calm: — I remember, love. — I remember it a bit too. It was cold, and frightening. There was a woman crying, and then she left. My knitting needles fell from my hands. But she went on: — I don’t know her face, only her blue scarf. And she kept saying, “Forgive me, forgive me…” — Mary… — Don’t worry, Mum, it doesn’t upset me now. I just recall sometimes. And you know what? — she suddenly smiled. — I’m so glad you found me that day. I hugged her tight as my throat tightened. How often I’d wondered—who was that woman in the blue scarf? What drove her to leave her child under a bridge? Hunger, a drunken husband? So many things can happen in life. It’s not mine to judge. That night I lay awake, thinking how fate turns. Used to be, I felt cheated by life, condemned to loneliness. Yet it was all preparing me for the greatest task—to shelter and warm an abandoned child. From then on, Mary often asked about her past. I hid nothing, always trying to cushion the truth: — You know, child, people sometimes face choices with almost no way out. Maybe your mother suffered terribly deciding what she did. — Would you have ever done that? — she peered into my eyes. — Never, — I said firmly. — You are my joy, my blessing. Years flew by. Mary was top of her class, sometimes bursting home— — Mum, Mum! I read my poem in front of everyone today, and Miss Maria said I have a real gift! Her teacher, Maria Potter, often spoke to me: — Anna Evans, your girl must go on with her studies. Such a rare talent for words and language. You should see her work! — Where could she study? — I’d sigh. — We’ve no money… — I’ll help tutor for free; it would be a shame to waste such promise. So Maria tutored Mary—nights bent over books at our table. I’d bring them tea and homemade jam, listening as they discussed Shakespeare, Keats, Austen. My heart swelled—my girl soaked up everything. In her final year, Mary fell in love for the first time—with a new boy come to our village. She was heartbroken at times, scribbling poetry into a notebook she hid under her pillow. I pretended not to notice, though my heart ached for her—all first loves are bittersweet. After graduation, Mary sent off papers to teacher training college. I gave her everything I had and sold our cow—dear Daisy, I hated to part with her, but what else could I do? — No, Mum, — Mary protested. — How can you get by without the cow? — I’ll manage, love. There’s still potatoes, and hens laying. You need to study. When the acceptance letter came, the whole village celebrated. Even the farm head came to offer congratulations: — Well done, Anna! You raised a daughter and educated her. Now our village has its own scholar. I remember the day she left. We stood at the bus stop, waiting, arms around each other, tears streaming down her face. — I’ll write every week, Mum. And come home every break. — Of course, you will, — I said, heart breaking. The bus vanished over the hill, and I kept standing, unable to move. Claudia came and put her arm round me: — Come on, Anna, there’s plenty needing doing at home. — You know, Claudia, — I said, — I’m happy. Some have blood children, but mine was sent by God. She kept her promise—letters came often, each one a celebration. I read and reread them, knew every word by heart. She wrote of lectures, new friends, the city; between the lines, I read her longing for home. In her second year, she met her own James—a history student. She mentioned him in letters, shyly, but I sensed straight away—she was in love. That summer she brought him home, to meet me. He was serious and hard-working, helped me fix the roof and fence, made friends with neighbours. Evenings he sat on the porch, sharing stories from history that captivated us all. It was clear how deeply he cared for my Mary—never took his eyes off her. When she came for summer visits, everyone came to see what a beauty she’d grown into. Old Maude, now very frail, always crossed herself: — Lord, I was against you taking her in. Forgive me, I was a foolish old woman. Just look at the happiness she’s grown to! Now Mary teaches in the city—her own pupils, as Miss Maria taught her. She married James; they live together in love and harmony. They gave me a granddaughter—Annie, named after me. Little Annie is the spit of Mary as a child, only bolder. When they visit, she fills the house with clamour—always exploring, touching, climbing. I delight in her energy—a home without children’s laughter is like a church without bells. So here I sit, writing in my diary, while outside the snow swirls again. The floorboards still creak, the birch still taps the glass. But now, the quiet carries peace and gratitude—for every day lived, every smile of my Mary, for fate leading me to that old bridge. On my table stands a photo—Mary, James, and little Annie. Beside it, the old scarf I wrapped her in that day. I keep it to remember. Sometimes I stroke it—feeling the warmth of those days return. Yesterday Mary wrote again—she’s expecting another baby, a boy this time. James has already chosen a name—Stephen, for my late husband. So our family goes on; the memories will live. The old bridge is long gone—a sturdy new concrete one stands in its place. I rarely go by now, but each time I stop for a moment. Just thinking—how much life can change in a single day, a chance moment, a child’s cry on a damp March evening… They say fate tests us with loneliness so we learn to cherish those close. But I think otherwise—fate prepares us for the ones who need us most. It doesn’t matter if it’s blood—only that we heed the call of the heart. Mine, that day under the old bridge, did not lead me astray.

The Long-Awaited Granddaughter Natalia Mitchell anxiously kept calling her son, who was away on another long haul at sea, but the signal remained stubbornly silent. “Oh, what a mess you’ve made, my boy!” she sighed fretfully, dialling his number again. No matter how many times she called, she knew she wouldn’t reach him until he docked at the nearest port—which might not happen for ages. And now, of all times! For a second sleepless night, Natalia Mitchell lay awake—her son’s actions playing over and over in her mind! * * * This whole story began years ago, back when Michael hadn’t even dreamt of a life at sea. Already a grown man, with nothing long-term ever sticking with any woman—none of them, apparently, ever quite measured up! With a heavy heart, Natalia watched one relationship after another fall apart, each time thinking the girls perfectly decent—if only her son could see it. “You’re impossible, you know that?” she’d scold. “Nobody’s ever good enough! Who’ll ever be able to meet all your impossible standards?” “Don’t understand what you’re complaining about, mum. You want a daughter-in-law—doesn’t matter to you what she’s like?” “Of course it matters! I just want her to love you, and be a decent person, that’s all!” He’d just fall silent at that, which maddened Natalia. How could the son she’d raised, the boy who once wept on her lap, now act as if he knew better than she did? Who was the grown-up here, after all? “What was wrong with Natalie?!” she’d blurt, frustrated. “I told you already.” “Well… perhaps Natalie wasn’t the best example,” Natalia would admit, but she wasn’t prepared to back down. “Maybe she wasn’t honest, as you say, but I still don’t quite see…” “Mum! I really don’t think it’s worth discussing the details. She just wasn’t the one.” “What about Katie?” “No, not Katie either,” her son would reply calmly. “And Jenna? She was a wonderful girl. Sweet, homely, a little shy—always offered to help around the house. You have to admit, she was good.” “You’re not wrong, mum. She was very kind. But in the end, it turned out she never loved me.” “And did you love her?” “I suppose not.” “And Daria?” “Mum!” “What, ‘Mum’? Honestly, you’re impossible to please! Just a ladies’ man, you! You could settle down, start a family, have kids, for goodness’ sake!” “Let’s just drop this pointless conversation!” Michael would snap, finally storming off. “Just like his father—so fussy and stubborn!” Natalia thought, exasperated. Time passed, and the women changed, but her cherished dream of celebrating her son’s happiness—and looking after grandchildren—never came true. Then Michael changed careers altogether. An old friend convinced him to work on ships, and Michael accepted. Natalia tried in vain to dissuade him. “Mum, what’s the problem? It’s a fantastic offer! Do you know how much the guys earn? We’ll both have everything we need!” “What good is money if you’re never here? I’d rather you started a family!” “But you have to support a family! And if there are kids, I won’t be able to go to sea anyway—I’ll need to be raising them, right? So I’ll work hard while I still can.” Michael really did earn well. After his first trip, he refurbished the flat. After the next, he opened a current account—and handed his mother a card. “This is so you never go without!” “I’m perfectly fine as is! I just don’t have grandchildren, and time’s getting on. I’m old!” “You’re not old! Don’t be silly. You’ve got years to go before retirement!” Michael teased. Natalia never touched the card, her own modest income from the local pharmacy being quite enough for her simple needs. “Let it sit there, as it should. Michael never checks it. Maybe he’ll notice one day what a thrifty mother he’s got!” she’d chuckle to herself. That’s how things went for years. When Michael returned from sea for short stays, he seemed to make up for lost time—meeting friends, going out, seeing women he no longer introduced. Once, when Natalia reproached him, she got the terse reply: “It’s so you don’t worry if I don’t marry them. I have no intention of marrying girls like that, mum!” It hurt, especially when he called her too trusting. “You’re too kind, mum! You hardly knew any of them. They all wanted to seem perfect to you—but really, they weren’t.” That comment stuck with Natalia for ages, for in a single stroke, her son had cast what she saw as a virtue—trust—as stupidity. He called her stupid, essentially! Yet, when she saw him with a pretty girl one evening, Natalia’s fierce desire to see her son settled flared up again. She marched over—Michael, a grown man, went bright red. But a mum’s a mum—he had to make introductions. Milena made a great impression: tall, slim, curly-haired, pleasant. Seeing her and Michael together, Natalia forgot all previous grievances. “Perhaps luck just hadn’t been on Michael’s side. Maybe it’s a good thing he didn’t settle before—otherwise he’d have missed out on such a lovely girl!” she thought, hopeful. Michael’s romance with Milena lasted his whole shore leave. At Natalia’s urging, Milena visited several times, and Natalia was delighted—charming, intelligent, witty. But as Michael prepared for another stint at sea, Milena disappeared. “We’re not in touch anymore, and you shouldn’t be either,” Michael said bluntly, and left. Natalia puzzled over what had happened, but no answers were forthcoming. * * * A year passed. Her son came home between trips but, questioned about Milena, would only answer curtly and coldly. “Oh, for goodness’ sake! What was her flaw, then? What was wrong with her?” Natalia asked at last. “Mum, that’s my business. If I ended things, there’s a reason. Please, stay out of it.” Natalia nearly burst into tears. “Oh Michael, I only worry about you!” “Don’t! I told you—don’t talk to Milena, and stop pestering me!” Soon, Michael was off to sea again, and Natalia, heartbroken, got on as usual. Then, one day while at the pharmacy, a young woman came in for baby food. It was Milena, looking bashful and adjusting the hat of a little girl in a stroller. “Milena, darling! I can’t tell you how glad I am to see you! Michael explained nothing—just left and told me not to ask about you!” Natalia blurted in relief. “Is that so?” Milena looked down sadly. “Well. So be it.” Natalia grew anxious. “Tell me, love, what happened? I know my son—he’s difficult. Did he hurt you?” “It’s all right… I’m not angry. But we’d best get going—more shopping to do.” “Do come see me! At least pop by the pharmacy. We could have a chat.” And Milena did, during Natalia’s next shift—for more baby food. Gradually, Natalia got her to open up. It turned out Milena had become pregnant with Michael’s child, but upon telling him, he’d said he wanted no part in raising a child. He went away and never returned. “He probably just went to sea,” Milena shrugged. “No matter—my daughter and I will manage fine!” Natalia nearly fell to her knees at the stroller, gazing at the child: “You mean—she’s my granddaughter?” “That’s right,” Milena replied softly. “Her name is Anna.” “Anya…” *** Natalia soon learned that Milena’s living situation was shaky—she had recently arrived in the city and rented a flat, but with a baby and no income, it was barely manageable. She was considering returning to her parents. Natalia’s heart ached at the thought of never seeing her granddaughter again. “Come and live with me, Milena. With Anya! She’s my granddaughter! I’ll help you both, and you’ll find yourself a steady job. And Michael sends so much money now—I barely spend any! Anna will be well cared for.” “What will Michael say?” “Does it matter? He made this mess! Walked out on his child and kept it from his own mother! I’ll make up for him, whatever it takes! And when he’s back, I’ll tell him everything—believe me, I’ll have words with him!” Natalia shook her fist. So they began living together. Natalia spared neither time nor money for her granddaughter. She reduced her work shifts to spend more time with Anna, and Milena, having found a job, left her daughter in Natalia’s care. As Michael’s next return drew closer, Natalia imagined confronting her son and making him apologise to Milena. Milena, meanwhile, grew increasingly anxious. But for Natalia, this only awakened a protective urge. “Michael will come back and throw Anna and me out! I shouldn’t have moved in—I’ll start looking for a new flat tomorrow,” Milena lamented. “Don’t be silly. Nobody’s throwing you out! When Michael returns, I’ll handle him. You hear me?” “Oh, he’ll kick us out for sure! I shouldn’t have relied on your kindness—I want nothing from you. You’re wonderful, and you’ve done so much for Anna and me, but I ought to just go home to my parents. We’ll stay in touch, though!” “You’ll do no such thing! I’m the head of this house, and I decide who lives here—Michael can just try to challenge me!” No matter how much Milena objected, Natalia didn’t budge. She kept them both. “You know, I’m thinking,” Natalia said over dinner one night, “we ought to transfer the flat into Anna’s name. Just so there’s no question later. Michael might never marry, but my granddaughter should have something. Besides, Michael isn’t on the birth certificate,” Natalia glanced at Milena, who looked embarrassed. “I’m sorry—I thought…” “I understand. But if anything were to happen, it’d be difficult to prove he’s her dad, so tomorrow, we’ll make everything official.” “Please don’t, Natalia. My parents have their own flat—” “Don’t try to talk me out of it!” Natalia interrupted. “My mind’s made up!” But the solicitor refused: “Your son must first be formally taken off the deeds.” Natalia was annoyed, but with Michael returning soon, she hoped to settle things then. Meanwhile, Milena began disappearing, and Natalia grew suspicious. “Why are you always staying late at work?” Natalia demanded one evening. Milena hesitated. “I’m trying to get an advance on my wages, but my boss says until I finish a task, I can’t get it.” “Why do you need an advance? Are you short of money?” Milena quietly changed into her home clothes. Natalia followed, and spotted a large bag, half-packed, hidden behind the bed. “Where are you going?” Milena stayed silent. “You’re not seriously moving out?” “Natalia, I have to go! Michael’s coming back…” “I won’t let you and my granddaughter leave!” Natalia put her foot down. Then added, thinking it over, “And you know where I keep the card. The pin’s written nearby. You can use it for whatever you need, rather than working all hours. Anna will soon forget what her mum looks like at this rate! If you want Michael to accept you, you need to get used to running a household.” Milena said nothing. Michael was due to arrive in two days. * * * Early on the morning of Michael’s return, Natalia peeked into Milena and Anna’s room. Only Anna slept soundly—Milena was gone. “That’s odd! Where has she gone? It’s only six o’clock—she’s never left so early before!” Natalia returned to the kitchen to prepare Michael’s favourite dishes. She pictured herself greeting her son with Anna in her arms, and imagined making him apologise to Milena on her return. At last, the doorbell rang. Michael stood motionless in the doorway, staring at his mother cradling a child. “Hi, mum. Whose child is that? What did I miss while I was away?” “You should know the answer to that!” “I don’t have a clue,” Michael replied, taking off his shoes. “Go on, tell me your adventures while I was gone.” “Adventures? Well, I found my granddaughter, Anna! That’s what happened!” Natalia replied, resolutely staring her son down. “What granddaughter? I don’t have a brother or sister I don’t know about, do I?” Michael joked. “Stop pretending, Michael! Milena’s told me everything! I didn’t raise you for this! I’m ashamed of your behaviour!” “Milena? I don’t understand. First, I asked you not to speak with her. Second, what has Milena to do with this child?” There and then, Natalia let out the whole story, complete with reproaches. Michael, hearing it all, groaned and held his head. “Oh, mum! Really!” “What, are you going to call me an idiot again? Well, go ahead—but I—” Natalia braced herself. “She’s not my child, mum! Milena’s deceived you. Honestly, you’re too gullible! Wait—she’s only after the money. What did she take?” “Nothing! You—” “Mum! Check your savings! Milena’s probably long gone with them by now!” “She just went to work!” insisted Natalia. They argued for ages, Michael eventually agreeing to wait for Milena to return before jumping to conclusions. They waited, but Milena didn’t come home that evening, nor the next day. Her phone went unanswered. Natalia, taking Anna, went to where Milena claimed to work—only to learn Milena had never been employed there. Showing photos made no difference. Returning home to check her hidden savings, Natalia found the money and card missing—only Anna’s things remained. “How could this happen? I can’t believe she’d abandon Anna and just disappear?” “She could do worse,” Michael said grimly. “Everyone warned me she was trouble… Then a friend told me she’d robbed him, but I ignored it. Later, she announced she was pregnant—goodness knows by whom. She claimed it was mine. But word got back: she’d been with half the neighbourhood.” “Foolish, naïve me!” wept Natalia. “Why didn’t you warn me?” “I didn’t want to upset you. You care so deeply about everyone.” “So what now?” “We go to the police! Good thing you didn’t manage to give the flat to ‘Anna.’ You’d be homeless now.” They filed a police report, but Milena was never found. She vanished completely. Meanwhile, Michael quickly blocked the stolen bank card, which turned up later at a station outside town. At least, while the search went on, Natalia was allowed to care for Anna—she even left her job to do so, Michael’s earnings covering expenses. A DNA test confirmed Michael wasn’t Anna’s father—but by then, Natalia couldn’t bear to part with the little girl. After discussing it, she and Michael decided to raise Anna as their own. Milena was stripped of her parental rights in absentia. It took months of paperwork, but eventually Natalia became Anna’s official guardian. A year later, Michael came home from sea—with a wife: “Meet Sonia, mum. We’re going to live together now.” “But what about—?” Natalia stammered, glancing towards the nursery, unsure if Michael had told his new wife. Sonia smiled warmly: “It’s lovely to meet you, Mrs. Mitchell! Michael told me everything, and honestly, I admire you so much! If you’ll let me, I’d love to help raise Anna—” she looked at her husband. “I’ve decided to leave the sea for good, and Sonia and I will formally adopt Anna. This time, I won’t take ‘no’ for an answer!” Natalia beamed with joy: “Oh, what happiness! Come in, both of you! I’ve been waiting, made plenty of food! Now we’ll get to know each other properly! I’m so happy!” she said, brushing away a tear.

📌 Useful Social Services & Contacts in the U.S.

Stay informed and get help when you need it. Below are key national services with direct contacts that may support you or your loved ones:
🏥 Health & Mental Support

SAMHSA – Substance Abuse and Mental Health Services Administration

What they do: Free and confidential help with substance use and mental health disorders.

Hotline: 1-800-662-HELP (4357) – 24/7, anonymous support

Website: samhsa.gov

🧒 Support for Children & Families

WIC – Women, Infants, and Children Program

What they do: Nutritional and healthcare support for pregnant women, new mothers, and young children.

Federal Info Line: 1-800-522-5006

Find local WIC office: fns.usda.gov/wic