“Has he still not called, Mum?” asked Andrew, gazing at the woman seated at the table with unguarded eyes.
“No, my dear… Your father must be busy. He works so hard over there in Italy.”
“Yes, you said Christmas is coming soon…”
“It is, it truly is. He wrote to me, said hed bring us gifts and take us to the seaside in the summer.”
The woman forced a smile, though her heart cracked in two.
A small pot of potatoes simmered on the stove, while the last of the firewood burned low in the hearth.
Anna wrapped her arms around her children and whispered a silent prayer:
“Lord, give me the strength not to weep before them.”
Once, life had been different.
She and Elijah had loved fiercely. They had married young, full of hope, with two small children and half a cottage to call their own.
Elijah was diligent, but the village offered little.
“I’m going to Italy, just for a few years. Ill earn money, come home, and buy you all you deserve.”
Anna had wept then.
“Dont go, Elijah…”
“Its for us, love. For no one else.”
And so he left.
At first, he called every evening.
He sent money, spoke to the children, told Anna he loved her.
Then the calls grew scarce.
“Im tired. No signal. Working late.”
Then came the lies: “I lost my walletcant send anything this month.”
Anna believed him. She always had.
She worked, raised the children, kept the house.
She scrubbed floors at the school, mended clothes for neighbours, toiled in the fields.
But she never complained.
“Its only for a time. When Elijah comes back, all will be well.”
Three years passed. Elijah did not return.
The children grew.
Andrew turned twelve, Mary eight.
Their questions came more often:
“Mum, is Father still alive?”
“Of course, my darling. Its just so far away.”
“What if he never comes back?”
Anna smiled bitterly.
“Then it will be just the three of us. And we shall be enough.”
One evening, the postman brought a letter.
The words cut like a knife:
“Anna, dont hate me. Ive met someone else. Im to marry here, start anew. Keep the children safe.
Elijah.”
The woman stood motionless for minutes.
Then she tore the letter in half and cast it into the fire.
She would not let them see the pain in her eyes.
“Whats the matter, Mum?” Mary asked.
“Nothing, my love. Your father says hell send money next month.”
But no money ever came.
Years flew by.
Anna aged before her timeher back bent, her hands rough.
Yet the cottage was spotless, the garden lovely, the children well-mannered.
Andrew found work in the city. Mary attended grammar school.
One day, nearly twenty years later, the gate creaked.
Elijah.
Old now, his hair white, but well-dressed, a heavy bag in hand.
Anna stepped onto the threshold.
“Good evening…” he murmured.
“What do you want here, Elijah?”
“Ive come… home.”
The woman was silent.
Behind her, Andrew paused, staring hard.
“Who is this, Mum?”
“Your father.”
A sharp, heavy quiet filled the air.
Andrew crossed his arms.
“To me, youre no father at all.”
“Son, let me explain”
“You had twenty years to explain! My childhood, my youthwhere were you?”
Elijah lowered his gaze.
“I was a fool… I made a mistake.”
“No. You were a coward.”
“Andrew”
“Dont call me that!”
Anna raised a quiet hand.
“Enough. Come inside, Elijah.”
He entered, shamefaced. The cottage smelled of fresh bread and clean linen.
“Ive left no mark here,” he said, glancing around.
“Life goes on without you. You stood still while the world moved past.”
Elijah tried to meet her eyes.
“Anna, I… I was never happy.”
“You chose that, Elijah.”
“I was young, blind”
“And now?”
“Let me stay. With you. With my family.”
She smiled bitterly.
“After twenty years?”
“Look, I have money. We can fix the house”
“I dont want your money. Ive lived with dignity, not pity.”
Elijah fell to his knees.
“Forgive me.”
“I forgave you long ago. But I cannot take you back.”
Andrew walked out into the yard.
Elijah followed.
“Dont hate me, son.”
“I dont. But I cannot love you.”
“Perhaps one day”
“Perhaps. But not today.”
And so Elijah left again.
This time, no promises.
Only a sack of coins left by the gate.
Anna did not touch it.
Months later, the postman returned.
“Madam Anna, a telegram from Italy.”
The words were simple:
“Elijah Dumitrescu has passed. No kin. Buried abroad.”
Anna looked to the sky and whispered,
“May God forgive him. Wherever he is, I hope he understood what he lost.”
That evening, Andrew returned.
“Mother… I heard.”
“I know, my dear.”
“Do you think he deserved forgiveness?”
“All men do. But not all deserve a second chance.”
He sighed, watching the fire.
“Was it very hard for you, Mum?”
“It was. But I had you. That kept me going.”
More years drifted by.
Mary married. Andrew had children of his own.
Anna remained in her cottage, surrounded by old portraits and her childrens drawings.
One evening, she opened a drawer.
Inside lay a faded photograph of Elijah in his youth.
He had truly smiled then.
“You were my love and my sorrow,” she murmured. “But without you, I learned to stand alone.”
The lamp flickered out, leaving her thoughts lost in the dark.
How many women, she wondered, bury their tears in silence, bearing the weight of the world alonewhile the men who swore to love them forget the way home?
