The Fragile Woman
In September, a new girl named Lydia joined the class. She was so delicate, so fragile, it seemed a strong gust of wind might shatter her. She always wore a thick jumper, her sharp, bony shoulders poking through the fabric. Thin, pale hair was braided into wispy plaits tied with oversized pink ribbons. Her large eyes, set in a wan triangular face, held a perpetual look of quiet sadness and wonder.
To Matthew, tall and athletic, she resembled a fairy-tale princess—someone to protect, to cherish. He threw himself into the role with zeal. The other girls, however, despised her from the start.
“Nothing to look at, yet she acts like she’s something special… Skin and bones, but still, she’s snatched the handsomest boy in school,” they whispered venomously during breaks.
Lydia never ate in the school canteen. The smell of the food made her ill. Instead, she brought a large apple each day, nibbling tiny bites, chewing so slowly she never finished it by the end of lunch. The girls sneered whenever they spotted the half-eaten core in the bin. Matthew, meanwhile, wolfed down his meal and rushed to her side, his self-appointed duty.
He walked her home, carried her bag. None of the lads dared mock him—Matthew’s strength was legendary. Soon, they were inseparable, everyone growing accustomed to seeing them together.
Matthew fought bitterly with his parents. After graduation, he refused to leave for university in the city. He didn’t care where he studied, so long as he stayed with Lydia. He enrolled at the local college instead. Lydia’s parents adored him, trusting him completely with their daughter. She was bright but struggled with exams, nearly fainting during each one. University was out of the question.
Lydia was their late-in-life child, coddled and shielded—God forbid she fall ill or stress herself. Oddly enough, she rarely did.
At a family meeting, it was decided: education mattered less than a good marriage. And in that, Lydia had triumphed. Matthew was the perfect match. Her mother, a doctor, secured her a job as the clinic director’s secretary. So Lydia sat in the reception area, typing, answering calls.
Only Matthew’s parents disapproved. This wasn’t the bride they’d dreamed of for their son. They begged him to reconsider—did he truly understand what he was signing up for? She’d never be his equal, likely couldn’t even bear children…
Matthew paid no heed. He enjoyed shielding his fragile girl. With her, he felt stronger. Loved how unlike the others she was, how her wide grey eyes fixed on him. But his parents’ relentless nagging wore him down, and one day, he proposed.
Her parents rejoiced. Their daughter had landed a fine man—now they could die in peace, knowing she’d be cared for. Never much of a homemaker, Lydia would live with them after the wedding until she adjusted. Their flat was bigger anyway.
Matthew’s parents acquiesced. At least their son wouldn’t go hungry.
The newlyweds settled into quiet harmony. There was nothing to fight over. When Lydia became pregnant, her parents didn’t believe it at first. Even late-term, her belly remained small. No passion was evident between them—no sighs, no whispers from their room at night.
Lydia was barred from lifting so much as a book, lest she lose the baby. His parents even forbade them sharing a bed, buying a second sofa for Matthew.
He hated it. Soon, he began sleeping at his parents’ house. Again, no one objected—except his parents, who needled him about wasting his life on that frail girl. Frustrated, he stormed out, seeking refuge with friends.
One such evening, he met Samantha—a curvy, dark-haired woman, bold and unapologetically sensual. The attraction between them was instant, violent. They lost themselves in each other, unable to resist. The heat between them only grew.
His parents scolded him for abandoning Lydia when she needed him most. But Lydia barely noticed, absorbed in the life stirring within her. The baby kicked restlessly, sparking ravenous hunger. Only fresh air calmed him, so Lydia spent hours on the balcony, reading.
Maybe the baby took after his father’s restless spirit—or maybe he’d simply had enough of confinement—but he arrived early. Small but sturdy, with Matthew’s features. Even Lydia’s parents relented, delighted.
Matthew was with Samantha when it happened. His mother called the next day to announce his son’s birth. He rushed to the hospital, staring up at the window where Lydia lay, exhausted, even thinner than before.
At home, Matthew carried the baby the entire way—Lydia was too weak. A miracle she’d given birth at all. Petite as a teenager, yet her breasts brimmed with milk. The boy fed greedily, flourishing into a robust, loud little thing within weeks.
The grandparents took over most childcare duties. Lydia was only trusted with strolls in the pram. She’d gaze at her sleeping son, struggling to believe she was his mother. He was all Matthew—nothing of her in him.
At first, Matthew hurried home after work. Then, gradually, he slipped back to Samantha. But he always returned at night, to Lydia.
Both sets of parents understood. Life with Lydia wasn’t easy. They sighed, left him be. He’d grow out of it.
Only Samantha wasn’t satisfied. “Why cling to that dried-up twig? She’s useless—in bed, at home. Make up your mind,” she demanded.
Their fights exhausted Matthew. Lydia, in contrast, never scolded or complained. She’d smile when he returned, chatter about the baby. Holding his son melted his heart. Yet still, Samantha pulled him back.
But all things end. After their last fight, Matthew stayed away for days. When he returned, a neighbor handed him a letter—Samantha had found another man. She was gone.
That night, Matthew drank himself senseless. Stumbled to his parents’ door, collapsed. Sobered up, he went home. Lydia asked no questions, just smiled when he started coming straight home after work. And little Henry clung to him—only Dad could toss him high, give piggyback rides.
In his son and wife, Matthew found solace. Evenings were for Henry now, who adored him unconditionally. Both lively, both mirror images. Lydia sensed she didn’t quite belong in their boisterous duo but didn’t mind, surrendering the role of primary parent gladly.
When Henry started secondary school, Lydia’s father passed. Her mother followed a year and a half later, heartbroken. Lydia, forced to learn housekeeping, was aided by Matthew and Henry—cleaning, shopping. Matthew’s mother taught her to cook.
Henry, emulating his father, took over heavy chores when Matthew was at work. Neighbors cooed at the sight of them—Henry nearly as tall as his dad now, Lydia a wisp between them.
“Look at her luck. A gorgeous husband, and the son’s even better,” one woman muttered. “My girl dances attendance on a drunk, while that one gets everything handed to her.”
Matthew’s mother died of cancer as Henry finished school. His father grieved deeply. Lydia tried to comfort him, but he died within the year.
How did she outlive them all? The saying held true—a storm breaks the strong tree, while the thin one merely bends.
Henry went to university in the city, married a vivacious beauty named Marianne by his third year.
Passions faded. Now, it was just Matthew and Lydia, growing old. His heart began to falter. Gone were the days of push-up contests with Henry. A paunch formed; his hair thinned. But Lydia, though silver-streaked, remained slender, untouched by time.
After a hospital stay, she visited daily with fresh juices and broth, chatting as he listened, still seeing the girl who’d walked into his classroom decades ago.
“Forgive me,” he murmured once.
“What for? I’m the one who failed you. You deserved better.” She pressed his hand to her lips.
Months later, Matthew died in his sleep. A blood clot, the doctors said. Henry returned for the funeral with his eldest son. Seeing him, Lydia wept—he looked so like Matthew.
“Come live with us, Mum. Why stay here alone?” Henry urged afterward.
“No, love. Don’t fret—I’ll manage. When your boy’s older, send him to me. Clean air, good schools. You’ll visit more.”
So she stayed. Tended the graves, saving Matthew’s for last. Stood there, talking to his photo as if he could hear.
She knew he hadn’t left her. Where else would her strength come from? She creaked like an old tree, never complaining, just remembering him fondly.
Then Matthew’s father passed.
God had given her a fragile body, yet she outlasted them all.
Henry and his family moved back to their hometown—her joy. She swapped flats, giving them hers. Now the grandchildren ran errands, escorted her to appointments. Like an inheritance, Matthew’s care passed to them.
She died quietly. Dreamed of Matthew young again, calling her. “I’ve missed you, Lydia.” And sheShe smiled as she took his hand, and together they walked into the light, finally at peace.
