The morning found us on a dusty road leading away from the village. In one hand, I held little Sophies small fingers, and in the other, a light suitcase stuffed not so much with belongings as with shattered 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 that very dawn hed raved about the night before. Through the grimy window, I watched the fields rush backward and realized a bitter truth: I had never met a man worth fighting for. And yet, it had all begun so beautifully, so blindingly romantic it stole my breath.
Mark had crashed into my life during his final year at university. He wouldnt leave me alone, showering me with compliments, gazing at me with lovesick eyes that melted every doubt. He swore he loved me, that he couldnt imagine life without me or my four-year-old Sophie. His persistence, that youthful earnestness, chipped away at the ice around my heart, still raw from losing my first husband. Within three months, we were living together in my flat, full of plans and promises.
“Alice, darling,” his eyes gleamed like two bottomless lakes, “Ill graduate next month, and well go straight to my village. Ill introduce you to my parents, my whole family! Ill tell them youre my future wife! Youll come, wont you?” He pulled me close, and the world seemed simple and bright.
“Alright, Ill come,” I whispered, a fragile hope warming inside me. Hed spoken so often of his motherkind, welcoming, a woman who loved guests and knew how to make a home. I believed him. I wanted to believe.
The village where Mark grew up greeted us under a quiet evening sun. His family lived close, practically on top of one another. I didnt yet know about Irina, the local beauty smitten with him since childhood, the pride of the village and everyones idea of the perfect bride. Nor did I know of old Thomas, Marks grandfather, who lived nearby in a crumbling cottage and often visited his sons bathhouse, his own having long since sagged into disrepair. Thomas spent his days in quiet solitude, gazing at the hill beyond the village where his wife lay beneath a birch. He knew guests were cominghis grandson bringing his intended.
The night before, Thomas had stopped by and found his daughter-in-law, Margaret, in a foul temper.
“Another row with Steven?” hed asked, bracing for a lecture.
But Margaret, seeing him, spilled her grievances first:
“Hello, Granddad. Did you know our Marks getting married? Bringing his city girl tomorrow.”
“I know, Steven told me. Well, its time. Hes finished school, got a job. Let him settle before the wind blows him away,” Thomas mused.
“Thats all well and good,” Margaret huffed, her face twisting. “But this girl… Shes three years older! With a child in tow! As if there arent plenty of good village girlsour Irina, for one. Pretty, a nurse, hardworking. And who is this one? Whos the father? Whats her family like? Why saddle himself with someone elses burden? Hell have children of his own soon enough. Bet shes thrilled to latch onto a graduate…”
“Margaret, meddling never ends well,” Thomas tried, but she wasnt listening.
Shed been simmering for days, nursing a grudge against her son and this stranger whod stolen him from the “perfect” match. Quietly, she hatched her plan: no effort, no feast, no smiles. Let this city girl see she wasnt wanted. Shed taken Markthat was enough.
We arrived at dusk, weary but still hopeful. Mark glowed with happiness. A year away from home, hed missed his parents, his grandfather, these familiar lanes. His mother opened the door. He barreled in first, dropping his bag, while Sophie and I lingered on the threshold, waiting.
“My boy, my Mark!” Margaret clutched him as if afraid to let go, her gaze sliding over me and Sophiecold, assessing. “Our graduate at last!” She emphasized *our*, her eyes darting to me as if to say, *unlike some.*
“Wheres Dad? Granddad?”
“In the bathhouse. Theyll be back. Theyve waited so long,” again, only *they*.
Then her eyes landed on me, sugary yet sharp:
“So this is… Alice? With the child?” She looked me up and down, slow and disdainful.
“Well, come in, wash up. Mark, show them around.”
From the first words, I understood. Mark, oblivious, beamed and took my hand, leading me through the house. His father and grandfather returned from the bathhouseSteven gruff but sincere, Thomas warm-eyed and gentle. They embraced us all with genuine delight, impossible to fake.
“Good to have you here!” Steven boomed. “Margaret, set the table! Theyve traveled far, theyre hungry. And Granddad and I could use a bite after the steam!”
The table was meager. Marks brows flickered in surprisehe knew his mothers usual spreads. I barely ate, a knot of humiliation tight in my throat. Resentment toward Mark grew: why hadnt he introduced me as his fiancée? Why let them slight us?
Steven poured homemade wine and raised his glass, but Margaret cut in:
“To our son! To his degree, his new job! Were so proud!”
Toast after toastonly for Mark. As if Sophie and I didnt exist. And he… he laughed, chatted, said nothing. Not one word in our defense. I barely recognized him. I tried to excuse it*hes missed them, hes relaxed. But he loves me…*
Only Thomas glanced at us now and then, his eyes kind, then sharp with disapproval for Margaret. He saw everything.
Sophie, polite but exhausted, could barely keep her eyes open. I turned to Margaret:
“May I put Sophie to bed?”
She nodded curtly, waving me toward a narrow bed in a tiny room.
“Sleep here. The sheets are clean.” The door slammed behind her.
I tucked Sophie in, listening to Margarets loud voice outside:
“Says shes tired, shell sleep with the child.”
My heart ached. I lay beside Sophie, silent tears falling. *What am I doing here? Wheres the kind woman he described? Why doesnt he see this?* If I could, Id leave now. But outside was an unfamiliar village, swallowed by darkness.
Mark woke me with a touch.
“Alice, come to my room. Why squeeze in here? Ill move Sophie. Sorry about todayI got caught up. Well talk tomorrow, I promise. The wedding, everything.” His whisper was gentle, but empty.
I didnt sleep. Every word, every glance replayed in my mind. I remembered my first husbands motherhow shed embraced me, wept with joy, become a second mother. I remembered Davidhis strength, his protection. Hed never let anyone slight me. But here… Margaret had shown her true colors. And Mark… hed smiled as if nothing was wrong.
*To them, Im a mistake. Because of Sophie. But theyre wrong if they think Ill tolerate this. Tomorrow, we leave.*
Breakfast was a pantomime of family bliss. They reminisced about Marks childhood, laughing. Steven slipped Sophie sweets; Margaret watched, seething. Then, sighing theatrically, she said:
“Well, son, no more carefree days. Now youll work to feed…” Her eyes flicked to Sophie*someone elses child.*
I looked at Mark. He grinned, pretending not to notice. Steven slammed his fist on the table:
“Margaret!”
But my patience had run out. Then Mark, still oblivious, chirped:
“Alice, Sophie, let me show you the village! Well visit Granddad!”
He took Sophies hand and strode out. Stunned, I followed.
On the walk, I poured out my hurt. He brushed it off*I was overreacting, it was just his mothers jealousy, I should relax.* He didnt understand: I didnt need him to fight. Just one word in our defense. But he said nothing.
“Dont fuss, love,” he patted my shoulder. “Well leave in a few days. Tomorrow, Ill fish at dawnperfect catch!”
By morning, he was gone. At sunrise, hed left us alone with his mother. I stepped into the hall and faced Margaret, her face twisted.
“Mark says youre leaving. Because of you. When will I see my son again? Youll keep him chained to your skirts, feeding you and your child”
I listened, strangely calm. No anger, just clarity. Smiling politely, I said:
“You know, Margaret, my first husband was an officer. Honest,
