“Has he still not called, Mum?” asked Andrew, gazing at the woman sitting at the table with unguarded eyes.
“No, my dear… Your father must be busy. He works so hard over there in Italy.”
“You said Christmas was coming soon…”
“It is, it truly is. He wrote to me, saying hes bringing us presents and that hell take us to the seaside in summer.”
The woman forced a smile, though her heart was breaking.
A small pot of potatoes simmered on the stove, and a thin log burned in the fireplacethe last of the pile.
Emma wrapped her arms around her children and prayed silently: *”Lord, give me the strength not to cry in front of them.”*
Once, life had been different.
She and Elijah had been in love, fiery and 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 earn 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.
He sent money, spoke to the children, told Emma he loved her.
Then the calls grew fewer.
*”Im tired, the signals bad, Im working late.”*
Then came the excuses: *”I lost my wallet, I cant send anything this month.”*
Emma believed him. She always had.
She worked, raised the children, kept the home.
She cleaned at the school, mended clothes for neighbours, tended the fields.
But she never complained.
*”Its just a season. When Elijah comes back, everything will be fine.”*
Three years passed, and Elijah never returned.
The children grew.
Andrew was twelve, Mary eight.
The questions came more often:
“Mum, is Dad still alive?”
“He is, my darling. Its just very far.”
“What if he never comes back?”
Emma smiled bitterly.
“Then therell be the three of us. And well be enough.”
One evening, the postman brought her a letter.
The words cut like a knife:
*”Emma, dont hate me. Ive met someone else. Im marrying here, starting a new life. Take care of the children. Elijah.”*
She stood motionless for minutes.
Then she tore the letter in half and threw it into the fire.
She wouldnt let the children see the pain in her eyes.
“You all right, Mum?” asked Mary.
“Of course, sweetheart. Your father said hell send money next month.”
But the money never came.
Years flew by.
Emma aged suddenly, her back bent, her hands rough.
Yet the cottage was spotless, the garden blooming, the children well-raised.
Andrew worked in the city, Mary attended secondary school.
Then one day, nearly twenty years later, the gate creaked.
Elijah.
Old now, hair white, but well-dressed, a large bag in hand.
Emma stepped onto the threshold.
“Good evening…” he said softly.
“What do you want, Elijah?”
“Ive come… home.”
She said nothing.
Behind her, Andrew stopped, staring.
“Whos this, Mum?”
“Your father.”
Silence.
Thick and crushing.
Andrew crossed his arms.
“To me, youre an orphan.”
“Son, please, let me explain”
“You had twenty years to explain! My childhood, my youth, every hardshipwhere were you?”
Elijah lowered his gaze.
“I made a mistake… I was a fool.”
“No. You were a coward.”
“Andrew”
“Dont call me that!”
Emma raised a gentle hand.
“Enough. Come in, Elijah.”
He stepped inside, ashamed. The cottage smelled of cleanliness, of freshly baked bread.
“I never found anyone to replace you,” he muttered, glancing around.
“Life moves on. You were the one who stood still among strangers.”
Elijah tried to meet her eyes.
“Emma, I… I was never happy.”
“But you chose it, Elijah.”
“I was young, stupid, blinded by another woman… I thought I could start fresh.”
“And now?”
“Let me stay. With you. With my family.”
She smiled bitterly.
“With me? After twenty years?”
“Look, Ive money. We can fix up the house, live well.”
“I dont need your money. Ive lived with dignity, not pity.”
Elijah fell to his knees.
“Forgive me.”
“I forgave you long ago, Elijah. But I cant bring you back.”
Andrew walked out into the yard.
Elijah followed.
“Dont hate me, son.”
“I dont hate you. But I cant love you anymore.”
“Maybe one day”
“Maybe. But not today.”
Elijah left again.
This time, no promises.
He left a bag of money by the gate.
She didnt touch it.
Months later, the postman returned.
“Mrs. Emma, a telegram. From Italy.”
The words were simple:
*”Elijah Dumitrescu has passed. No known family. Buried here.”*
She looked at the sky and whispered:
“May God forgive him… Perhaps, wherever he is, hes learned what he lost.”
That evening, Andrew came home.
“Mum… I heard.”
“I know, love.”
“Do you think he deserved forgiveness?”
“All men deserve forgiveness. But not all deserve a second chance.”
Then he sighed, watching the fire in the stove.
“Was it hard for you, Mum?”
“It was. But I had you. That kept me going.”
Years passed again.
Mary married. Andrew had children.
Emma remained in her cottage, quiet now, with old photographs and the childrens drawings on the walls.
One evening, she opened a drawer.
Inside lay an old picture of Elijah, young and hopeful.
“You were my love and my burden, Elijah. But I learned to be strong without you.”
The lamp flickered out, leaving only thoughts lost in the night.
How many women, she wondered, bury their tears in silence, holding up the world alone, while the men who swore to love them forget the way home?
