The Fragile Woman
One September, a new girl named Lucy joined the class. She was so slender and delicate, it seemed a strong gust of wind might snap her in two. She always wore a thick jumper, from which her sharp, bony shoulders jutted out. Her fine, fair hair was tied into thin little braids, fastened with large pink bows. Her big eyes, set in a pale, triangular face, held a look of quiet sorrow and wonder.
To Matthew, a tall and athletic boy, she appeared like a fairy-tale princess in need of protection—a role he took up with earnest enthusiasm. The girls, however, despised her from the start.
“Not much to look at, yet she acts like she’s something special,” they whispered spitefully during break. “Skin and bones, yet she’s snatched the handsomest lad in school.”
Lucy never ate in the canteen. The thought of school meals made her ill. Instead, she brought a large apple each day, nibbling it so slowly she never finished it by the end of lunch. The girls sneered at the half-eaten core left in the bin. Matthew, meanwhile, wolfed down his meal and rushed off to watch over her.
He carried her bag, walked her home, and none of the other lads dared mock him—Matthew was known for his strength. Soon, everyone grew used to seeing them together.
After school, when the time came to leave for university in the city, Matthew fought bitterly with his parents. He didn’t care where he studied, so long as he stayed with Lucy. In the end, he enrolled at the local college. Lucy’s parents adored him, trusting him wholeheartedly with their daughter. She did well in her studies, though exams left her exhausted. Higher education was out of the question.
Lucy was her parents’ late-in-life child, and they fussed over her endlessly, terrified she might fall ill or overexert herself—though truthfully, she wasn’t often sick. A family council decided that for a woman, marriage mattered more than education, and Matthew was a fine match. Lucy’s mother, a doctor, arranged for her to work as a secretary at the clinic. There she sat in the reception, typing away and answering calls.
Only Matthew’s parents disapproved. *Not the wife they’d dreamed of for their son.* They pleaded with him to reconsider, warning that she’d never be his support, might never bear children…
But Matthew never thought of such things. He simply enjoyed caring for her. Beside her, he felt stronger, more himself. He loved how different she was from other girls, loved the way her wide grey eyes looked at him. Yet his parents’ relentless talk of marriage wore him down until, at last, he proposed.
Her parents were overjoyed. Now they could die in peace, knowing their daughter was safe. Lucy had never kept house, so they decided the young couple would live with them until they settled into married life. Their flat was larger, after all.
Matthew’s parents reluctantly agreed. At least their son would be fed.
The newlyweds lived quietly and contentedly. They had no reason to quarrel. When Lucy fell pregnant, her parents could hardly believe it. Even late into the term, her belly remained small. And passion between the two? None that anyone noticed. Not a sigh, not a whisper came from their room at night.
Lucy was forbidden from lifting so much as a book, lest she lose the baby. Soon, they weren’t even allowed to share a bed—a second sofa was bought, and Matthew slept there.
He hated being apart from her and began staying at his parents’ house instead. This, too, suited everyone—though his mother and father never missed a chance to remind him he’d shackled himself to a weakling, doomed to serve her forever. Frustrated, he stormed off to his friends.
On one such evening, he met Sarah—a sturdy, curvaceous brunette whose allure was impossible to ignore. A fierce attraction sparked between them, wild and consuming. They lost all restraint, falling into each other’s arms like starving beasts.
Matthew’s parents scolded him for straying when his wife needed him most. Yet Lucy seemed untroubled. She was absorbed in the life growing inside her, in the restless kicks that stirred her appetite. Only the open air soothed the baby, so she spent hours on the balcony, reading.
Perhaps the child inherited his father’s temperament, or perhaps he’d grown impatient in his cramped quarters—but he arrived early. Small yet strong, he bore his father’s likeness. Even Lucy’s parents, grudgingly, admitted it.
Matthew was with Sarah when the baby came. His mother called the next day to deliver the news. He rushed to the hospital, lingering beneath Lucy’s window, staring up at her exhausted, frailer-than-ever frame.
On the way home, he carried the infant the entire way—Lucy was too weak. It was a wonder she’d given birth at all. Her chest was girlishly small, yet milk flowed plentifully. The boy thrived, growing plump and rosy within a month, loud-voiced and ravenous.
Lucy’s parents took charge of the baby. She was only trusted to push the pram. Staring at her sleeping son, she struggled to believe he was hers—so little of her in him, all Matthew.
At first, Matthew hurried home after work to his wife and child. Then, bit by bit, his evenings slipped back to Sarah. Yet he always returned to Lucy at night.
Both sets of parents sighed, resigned. Sooner or later, he’d tire of the affair.
Only Sarah grew impatient. “Why cling to that dried-up twig?” she snapped. “She’s useless—in bed and out. Make up your mind.”
Their quarrels drained Matthew. Lucy, by contrast, never scolded, never demanded. When he came home, she greeted him warmly, shared news of their son. The moment Matthew held the boy, his heart ached with love. Yet the pull toward Sarah remained, inexplicable and fierce.
But all things end. After a particularly bitter row, Matthew stayed away for days. When he returned, a neighbour handed him a letter—Sarah had left, tired of sharing him. She’d found someone unattached. *Don’t look for me.*
For the first time, Matthew drank himself senseless. Stumbling to his parents’ doorstep, he collapsed. When he sobered, he went home to Lucy. She asked no questions, simply glad to have him back. Little Bobby clung to him, trailing in his shadow—only Daddy could toss him high, ride him like a horse.
In his wife and son, Matthew found solace. Evenings were now spent playing with Bobby, who adored him without reserve. Both lively, both alike, while Lucy faded quietly into the background, yielding the role of parent without complaint.
When Bobby reached fifth year, Lucy’s father died. Her mother followed a year and a half later, broken by grief. Forced to learn housekeeping, Lucy muddled through with Matthew and Bobby’s help—cleaning, shopping. With her mother-in-law’s guidance, she even learned to cook.
Bobby, taking after his father, shouldered the heavy chores when Matthew was at work. The neighbourhood cooed at the sight of them—Bobby shooting up, nearly his father’s height, Lucy a wisp beside them.
“What’s she done to deserve such luck?” one neighbour grumbled. “A strapping husband, a son even finer. My daughter dances attendance on her layabout, while this one gets everything handed to her on a silver platter.”
Matthew’s mother died of cancer when Bobby finished school. His father, heartbroken, faded soon after. Lucy tended to him, but grief carried him off within a year.
*How does she endure,* folk wondered, *when sturdier souls crumble?* Storms break the mighty oak, but the slender reed merely bends.
Bobby went off to university in the city, marrying a vivacious girl named Margaret in his third year.
Passions cooled, leaving Matthew and Lucy to their quiet companionship. Age crept in—Matthew’s thinning hair, his softening middle, Lucy’s first grey threads. Yet she remained as slight and straight as ever, untouched by time.
When chest pains landed Matthew in hospital, Lucy visited daily with fresh juice and broth, chattering softly while he listened—still seeing the girl who’d walked into his classroom so long ago.
“I’m sorry,” he confessed one day. “I failed you.”
“Not at all,” she murmured, pressing his hand to her lips. “I failed you. You deserved a better wife.”
Months later, Matthew died in his sleep—a blood clot, the doctors said. At the funeral, Bobby arrived with his eldest son. Seeing him, Lucy wept. The years had only deepened his resemblance to his father.
“Come live with us, Mum,” Bobby urged. “No need to stay here alone.”
She shook her head. “I’ll manage. When your boy’s older, send him to me. The air’s cleaner here, the schools good—and you’ll visit more.”
And so she remained, alone. She tended the graves—her parents’, her in-laws’, Matthew’s last. Standing before his headstone, she spoke to him as if he stood beside her, sharing news, trusting he still watched over her. Where else would her strength come from?
BobbyAnd when her time came at last, she closed her eyes with a quiet smile, knowing they would soon be reunited, just as he had promised.
