Fed Up With The Mother-in-Law and the Wife
That evening, the quietest, most stoic man in our village, Stephen Harper, came to see me. There are men like himmen youd trust to hold up the roof in a storm, unflinching as an ancient oak. Back straight, hands like spades, palms marked with callouses and scars, eyes deep and unfazed as a forest pond. Stephen never says too much, never complains. If something needs doinga neighbours fence fixed, an elderly widows firewood stackedhe appears, does the job without a word, nods and walks away.
And yet, that night he came. I remember it so clearly. The door to my little surgery creaked open so softly, it was more like a draft than a person arriving. He stood on the threshold, cap clasped in his hands, eyes fixed on his muddy boots. His coat was damp from the drizzle, thick clumps of mud on his wellingtons. Something in his posture made my heart sinkhe looked shrunken, defeated.
Come in, Stephen, dont just hover on the step, I said gently, putting the kettle on. Some troubles, I know, are eased not by medicine but by a cup of strong tea.
He shuffled in, perched on the edge of my exam bed, head lowered. Silence hung heavy between us, punctuated only by the slow tick-tock of the clock on my wall. That silence weighed more than any raised voice. It pressed in, filling up the whole room. I handed him a mug of hot tea, made sure his cold hands gripped it.
He cradled the mug, tried to take a sip, but his hands trembled so the tea nearly spilled. Thats when I saw a single tear slide down his weather-beaten cheek. Just one, solid and silent as molten lead. Then another fell, though he never sniffled or lifted a hand to his face. He just sat, big and strong, while the tears vanished into his stubble.
Im done, Mrs. Simmons, he gasped, voice barely above a whisper. Thats it. I cant do it anymore. Not got the strength.
I sat next to him, putting my rough old hand over his. He flinched, then let it rest.
Who are you leaving, Stephen? I murmured.
My lot, he muttered thickly. The wife, Emily her mother. Theyve ground me down, Mrs. Simmons. Worn my soul raw. Like a pair of crows, picking at me. If I cook supper while Emilys at the dairy, I get, Too much salt, you cut the potatoes wrong. If I put up a shelf, Crookedeveryone elses husband does it right, not this hopeless lump. Dig the veg patch, Shallow, missed weeds. And on and on, year after year. Not a kind word, not a glance of warmth. Just constant nagging, like nettles on the skin.
He trailed off, taking another sip of tea.
Im no lord of the manor, Mrs. Simmons. I know lifes hard. Emilys on the farm dawn till dusk, shattered, short-tempered. Her mum, Mrs. Edith White, barely walks, grumbles all day, sees the world through grey glass. I get it. So I shoulder on. Up earliest, light the stove, fetch water, see to the hens, then off to work. Come home and still its not enough. Say one wrong wordthree days sulking. Say nothingWhy are you silent? Thinking nasty thoughts? A mans heart, Mrs. Simmons, isnt made of tin. It can wear out, too.
He stared at the little flame beneath my kettle, as if watching the edge of the world. He talked on, as if finally the dam had burst, telling me how Emily would go days barely speaking a word, how they whispered behind his back, how the best preserves were tucked away, never for him. The birthday when he spent his bonus on a fine shawl for Emily, only for her to chuck it in the chest with a sneer: Shouldve bought yourself new bootsyou tramp about in rags.
I looked at this great, hulking man, who could wrestle a stubborn bull, and yet he slumped in my chair like a whipped dog, mute and broken. I thought my own heart would crack.
I built that house myself, brick by brick, he whispered. Thought itd be a nest. A family. Turned into a cagefull of angry birds. Today her mum started up again, Creaking door keeps me up, youre no real man, just an embarrassment. I grabbed the axe meant to fix the hinge. But found myself staring at that old apple tree in the garden Thought went dark as pitch, Mrs. Simmons, barely shook it off. Packed a bit of bread and came here. Ill find a place to sleep, then head to the station in the morning, just go. Maybe if Im gone, theyll finally have one kind word for me. Only when its too late.
In that moment, I realised hed gone past mere exhaustionthis was someone right at the edge. And I could not let him leave.
All right, Mr. Harper, I said sharply, using my best nurses tone. Dry your eyes. This isnt like you. You want to run off? Have you thought what happens to them? Emily keep the farm herself? Mrs. White, who can barely walk? They need you.
He gave a bitter chuckle. And who needs me, Mrs. Simmons? Whos sorry for Stephen?
I am, I answered, firm as a slap. And Ill treat you. Youre ill, Mr. Harper. Its called a worn-out soul. And theres only one cure. Listen close and do as I say. Go straight home. Say nothing, no matter how they prod or scold you. Dont meet their eyes. Go straight to bed and turn to the wall. Ill come myself in the morning. And youre not to leave, do you hear?
He looked at me, doubt in his eyes, but a tiny flicker of hope, too. He drained his tea, stood, and left without looking back, into the freezing dark. I sat by my little fire, thinking what kind of healer I was when the best medicineone gentle wordpeople never spare for each other.
By dawn, I was knocking at their gate. Emily answered, face pinched, eyes red from a sleepless night.
What do you want, Mrs. Simmons, at this hour?
Ive come to check on Stephen, I said, brushing past her.
Inside, the cottage was cold, austere. Mrs. White sat on the bench wrapped up to her nose in a shawl, suspicious eyes following me. Stephen lay in bed, just as Id told him, his back turned.
Whats wrong with him, healthy bloke like that, just lying about while theres work to do, her mother grumbled. Should be up, not lazing.
I put my hand to his brow, though I knew well enough what ailed him, listened with my stethoscope for show. He lay motionless, face grim, jaw working.
I stood and fixed the women with my sternest look.
Its bad, ladies. Very bad. Stephens heart is stretched tighter than a bowstring. Nerves shot to pieces. Little more, and itll snap. Then youll both be on your own.
They exchanged looks. Emilys face creased in confusion, Ediths full of disbelief.
Dont be ridiculous, Mrs. Simmons, the old woman snorted. Yesterday he was splitting logs, sparks flying.
That was yesterday, I shot back. Today, hes at breaking point. Youve brought him here. With your constant nipping, your endless criticism. Did you think he was stone? Hes flesh and blood, with a soul so sore it aches. Ive given him a prescription: complete bed rest, no chores. Peace and quiet. Not a word of nagging. Only kindness and care. Treat him like hes made of glass, feed him broth, keep him warm. Or elseI cant answer for what might happen. City hospital, maybe. Not everyone comes back from there.
I said it, and saw a cold jolt of real fear in their eyes. For all their harshness, they depended on Stephen as on a stone wallsilent, steadfast. The thought the wall might disappear shook them to their core.
Emily shuffled to the bed, tentative, touching her husbands shoulder. Mrs. White clamped her lips shut, eyes darting around for answers.
I left them that way, alone with their fear and their shame, and waited.
For the next few days, as Stephen later whispered to me, the cottage was silent as a church. The women tiptoed, spoke in low voices. Emily brought him chicken broth, left it on the table and backed out. Her mother crossed herself as she passed him. It was awkward and strange, butthe shouting stopped.
And then, slowly, things began to thaw. One morning, Stephen woke to the smell of… baked apples. His favourite, with cinnamon, the way his mum had made them. He turned his head. There was Emily, perched on a stool peeling one. She jumped when she saw he was awake.
Eat, Stephen, she said, voice uncertain. Theyre hot.
And for the first time in years, he saw not irritation, but a glimmer of care in her eyesclumsy, raw, but real.
Two days later, Mrs. White left him a pair of woollen socksher own knitting.
Keep your feet warm, she muttered, but a different note hid in her voice. Its draughty by the window.
Stephen lay there, staring at the ceiling, feelingfor the first time in yearsnot invisible. Not just a pair of hands, but someone that mattered. Someone they were afraid to lose.
A week on, I visited again. The place was transformed. Warmth, the smell of fresh bread. Stephen, pale but more himself, sat at the table. Emily poured his milk, her mother slid a plate of scones nearer. They werent all smiles and laughter, nobut the air no longer crackled with resentment. It had lifted.
Stephen looked up at me, a quiet, grateful light in his eyes. He smiled, and his rare, genuine smile filled the little house with light. Emily, catching his smile, blushed and smiled back. Mrs. White turned quickly to the window, but I saw her dab her eyes with a corner of her shawl.
I never had to treat them again. They learned to be each others medicine. No, they werent suddenly a model family. The old woman still had her sharp remarks; Emily could bark when overtired. But it was differentafter a snap, Mrs. White would go put the kettle on for Stephen, and Emily, after a flare, would squeeze his shoulder. Theyd learned to see not just failures, but the person behind them. Weary, beloved, needed.
Sometimes, walking past their cottage at dusk, I see them on the old bench outsideStephen tinkering, the women shelling peas and chatting softly. My heart warms, quiet and proud, country-style. You understand then that true happiness isnt loud words or rich gifts. Its a quiet evening, the scent of apple pie, socks knitted with love, the certainty you are home. That you are needed.
And you start to wonder, my dears, which heals besta bitter pill or a kind word at just the right moment? Do we need to be scared stiff, sometimes, before we start to value what we have?
