“Has he called yet, Mum?” asked Andrew, looking at the woman sitting at the table with unguarded eyes.
“No, my darling… Your father must be busy. He works so much over in Italy.”
“You said Christmas is coming soon…”
“It is, love. He wrote to say hes bringing us presents and that hell take us to the seaside in summer.”
The woman forced a smile, but her heart split in two.
A small pot of potatoes simmered on the stove, and a thin logthe last of the pileburned in the fireplace. Emma wrapped her arms around her children and silently prayed, *”Lord, give me the strength not to cry in front of them.”*
Life hadnt always been like this.
She and Elijah had once been full of fire. Married young, full of hope, with two small children and half a cottage to their name. Elijah was hardworking, but the village offered little.
“Im going to Italy, just for a few years. Ill make money, come home, and buy you everything you deserve.”
Emma had wept then.
“Dont go, Elijah…”
“Its for us, love. For no one else.”
And he left.
At first, he called every evening. Sent money, spoke to the children, told Emma he loved her.
Then the calls grew fewer. *”Im tired. The signals poor. Im working late.”*
Then came the lies. *”I lost my walletcant send anything this month.”*
Emma believed him. She always had.
She worked, raised the children, kept the home. She cleaned the school, mended neighbours clothes, toiled in the fields. But she never complained. *”Its just a season. When Elijah comes back, everything will be right.”*
Three years passed. Elijah didnt return.
The children grew. Andrew was twelve, Mary eight. Questions came more often:
“Mum, is Dad still alive?”
“Of course, sweetheart. Hes just far away.”
“What if he never comes back?”
Emma smiled sadly. “Then itll be the three of us. And well be enough.”
One evening, the postman brought a letter.
The words cut like a knife:
*”Emma, dont hate me. Ive met someone else. Im marrying here, starting a new life. Keep the children safe. Elijah.”*
She stood motionless for minutes. Then tore the letter in half and tossed it into the fire. She wouldnt let them see the pain in her eyes.
“Mum, whats wrong?” Mary asked.
“Nothing, darling. Your father says hell send money next month.”
But the money never came.
Years flew by. Emma aged suddenlyher back bent, hands rough. But the cottage stayed clean, the garden bloomed, and the children grew up well. Andrew worked in the city; Mary finished school.
Then, nearly twenty years later, the gate creaked.
Elijah.
Old now, hair white, but well-dressed, a heavy bag in hand.
Emma stepped onto the porch.
“Good evening,” he said quietly.
“What are you doing here, Elijah?”
“Ive come… home.”
She didnt answer. Behind her, Andrew stopped, staring.
“Who is that, Mum?”
“Your father.”
Silence. Thick and heavy.
Andrew crossed his arms.
“Youre a stranger to me.”
“Son, let me explain”
“You had twenty years to explain! My childhood, my struggleswhere were you?”
Elijah lowered his gaze. “I was a fool…”
“No. You were a coward.”
“Andrew”
“Dont call me that!”
Emma raised a hand. “Enough. Come inside, Elijah.”
He followed, ashamed. The cottage smelled of fresh bread and cleanliness.
“I never found what I had here,” he murmured.
“Life moves on. You were the one who stood still.”
He tried to meet her eyes. “Emma, I… I was never happy.”
“You chose that.”
“I was young, blind”
“And now?”
“Let me stay. With you. With my family.”
She smiled bitterly. “After twenty years?”
“I have money. We can fix the houselive well.”
“I dont want your money. Ive lived with dignity, not pity.”
Elijah dropped to his knees.
“Forgive me.”
“I forgave you long ago. But I cant take you back.”
Andrew walked into the yard. Elijah followed.
“Dont hate me, son.”
“I dont hate you. But I cant love you.”
“Maybe one day…”
“Maybe. Not today.”
Elijah left againno promises this time. He left the bag of money by the gate. Emma didnt touch it.
Months later, another letter arrived.
*”Mrs. Emma. Telegram from Italy.”*
Just three lines:
*”Elijah Dawson has passed. No immediate family. Buried here.”*
She looked at the sky and whispered,
“May God forgive him. Perhaps he finally understood what he lost.”
That evening, Andrew came home.
“Mum… I heard.”
“I know, love.”
“Do you think he deserved forgiveness?”
“Everyone deserves forgiveness. Not everyone deserves a second chance.”
He sighed, watching the fire.
“Was it hard for you, Mum?”
“It was. But I had you. That kept me going.”
Years passed. Mary married. Andrew had children. Emma stayed in her cottage, surrounded by old photos and childrens drawings on the walls.
One night, she opened a drawer. Inside, a faded picture of Elijahyoung, smiling.
“You were my love and my burden,” she murmured. “But without you, I learned to be strong.”
The lamp flickered out, leaving her thoughts lost in the dark.
How many women, she wondered, bury their tears in silence, holding up the world alonewhile the men who swore to love them forget the way home?
