The morning found us on a dusty road leading away from the village. In one hand, I held little Sophies tiny fingers; in the other, a light suitcase stuffed not so much with belongings as with broken hopes. The bus coughed and sputtered as it pulled away from the stop, carrying us far from the place where, just hours before, I had still believed in something. I left without even saying goodbye to Mark. He was out fishing at dawn, just as hed excitedly described the night before. Through the grimy window, fields rushed past, and it struck mebitter and simplethat I had never met a man whose love was worth fighting for. And yet, it had all begun so beautifully, so blindingly romantic it took my breath away.
Mark had stormed into my life during his final year at university. He wouldnt leave me alone, showering me with compliments, gazing with lovesick eyes that melted my doubts. He swore he loved me, that he couldnt imagine life without meor without my four-year-old Sophie. His persistence, his boyish sincerity, thawed the ice around my heart, still fragile after losing my first husband. Within three months, he moved into my flat, brimming with plans and promises.
“Alice, love,” hed say, eyes shining like deep lakes, “once I graduate, well go to my village. Ill introduce you to my parents, my whole family! Ill tell them youre my future wife! Youll come, wont you?” Hed pull me close, and the world seemed simple, clear.
“Alright, Ill come,” Id reply, a timid hope flickering inside. He spoke so often of his motherkind, welcoming, a woman who loved guests and knew how to make a home warm. I believed him. I wanted to believe.
The village where Mark grew up met us in the quiet gold of evening. His family all lived close, practically side by side. I didnt know then about Irina, the local beauty whod loved him since childhood, the pride of the village and everyones idea of the perfect bride. Nor did I know of old Grandpa Thomas, Marks grandfather, who lived nearby in a crumbling cottage and often visited his sons bathhouse since his own had long since sagged into disrepair. Thomas spent his days in quiet reflection, staring at the hill beyond the outskirts where his wife lay beneath a birch tree. He knew guests were cominghis grandson was bringing his intended.
The night before, Grandpa Thomas had dropped by and found his daughter-in-law, Helen, in a foul mood.
“Fighting with Stephen again?” he asked, ready to scold his son.
But Helen, spotting him, spat out her frustration first:
“Evening, Grandad. You know our Marks getting married? Bringing his city girl tomorrow.”
“I heard,” Thomas said calmly. “Good for him. Finished his studies, got a job. Time to settle before life runs away with him.”
“Thats as may be,” Helen sniffed, her face twisting. “But this girl Three years older than him! And a child in towfour years old! Plenty of good village girls hereour Irina, for one. Pretty, hardworking, a nurse And whos this one? No one knows where the child came from, what family shes got. Why take on another mans burden? Hell have his own soon enough. Oh, shes pleased, Ill betsnagged herself a university lad”
“Helen, its not our place,” Thomas tried, but she wasnt listening.
Shed been stewing for days, nursing resentment toward her son and this stranger whod stolen him from the “right” bride. And so, she hatched her quiet, venomous plan: no effort, no lavish table, no warm smiles. Let this city girl see she wasnt wanted. Shed taken Markthat was enough.
We arrived at dusk, tired but hopeful. Mark glowed with happinesshe hadnt been home in a year, missed his parents, his grandad, these familiar lanes. His mother opened the door. He burst in first, dropped the suitcase, while Sophie and I lingered on the threshold, waiting for an invitation.
“My boy, my Mark, my darling!” Helen clung to him as if afraid to let go, but her glance at me and Sophie was cold, assessing. “Our graduates home at last!” She stressed you, as if to say, not like some.
“Mum, wheres Dad? Grandad?”
“In the bathhouse. Theyll be back. Theyve waited so long for you.” Againjust you.
Then her eyes slid to me, sweet but barbed:
“So this is Alice? With the child?” She looked me up and down, slow and disdainful.
“Well, come in, wash up. Mark, show them where everything is.”
I understood at once. Mark seemed oblivious, grinning as he took my hand to tour the house. His father and grandad returned thenStephen gruff but warm, Thomas with gentle eyes. They embraced us all with genuine warmth, impossible to fake.
“Dinners ready!” Stephen boomed. “Helen, set the tableguests are hungry!”
The meal was meager. Mark frowned brieflyhe knew what his mother was capable of. I barely ate, a lump of hurt in my throat. Resentment swelled: why hadnt he introduced me as his fiancée? Why let them slight us?
Stephen poured homemade wine, but Helen raised her glass first:
“To our son! To his degree, his new job!”
Toast after toastall for Mark. As if Sophie and I didnt exist. And he he beamed, laughed, chattedand said nothing. Not one word for us. I didnt recognize him. I made excuseshed missed his family, hed relax later.
Only Grandpa Thomas glanced at us with kindness, then glared at Helen. He saw everything.
Sophie, exhausted, could barely keep her eyes open. I asked Helen:
“May I put her to bed?”
She led us to a narrow bed in a tiny room. “Sleep here.” The door slammed.
I lay beside Sophie, silent tears falling. “Wheres the kind mother he described? Why doesnt he see this?” Id have left then, but the village was swallowed by night.
Mark woke me with a touch. “Come to my room. Why sleep here? Well talk tomorrowthe wedding, everything.” His whisper was gentle but empty.
I didnt sleep. I remembered my first husbands motherhow shed embraced me, loved Sophie. How David would never have let anyone slight me. Here, Helens contempt was plain. And Mark just smiled.
“To them, Im a mistake. Because of Sophie. But theyre wrong if they think Ill tolerate this. We leave tomorrow.”
Breakfast was a pantomime of family bliss. They reminisced about Marks childhood. Stephen gave Sophie sweets; Helen watched, seething. Then she sighed, fake sorrow in her voice:
“Well, son, no more carefree days. Now youll work hardfeeding” Her eyes flicked to Sophie.
I looked at Mark. He grinned stupidly. Stephen slammed the table: “Helen!”
But I was done. And then Mark, oblivious, chirped: “Lets show Alice and Sophie the village!”
Outside, I told him everythingthe hurt, the injustice. He brushed it off: “Youre overreacting. Mums just jealous. Dont take it to heart.” He didnt understandI didnt need him to fight his mother. Just one word in our defense. But he stayed silent.
“Dont fuss, love,” he soothed. “Well leave soon. Im fishing at dawngreat bite then!”
By morning, he was gone. Helen cornered me in the hall, livid:
“Mark says youre leaving. Because of you. When will I see my son again? Youll chain him to your skirts, make him feed you and your brat”
I listened, oddly detached. No anger leftjust cold clarity. I smiled, polite.
“You know, Helen, my first husband was an officer. Honest, steadfast. He loved me more than life. Unlike your son, he proved itnot with words, but actions. Hed never let even his mother insult me or our child. His mother still adores Sophie. She bought my flat, has another in the city for Sophie. I have two degrees, speak three languages. After David died, she lived for us. And she says I need a husbandSophie, a father. As for money Your son couldnt dream of my income. I run two shops. So your fearsthat hed feed another mans childare nonsense.”
Helen paled. I went on, quiet and firm:
“Thank you. Youve shown me your familys true faceand your sons. I dont need a mother-in-law who sees me as an enemy. Or a man who wont defend his loved ones.”
I packed calmly. Sophie and I walked
