I sit by the kitchen window, the rain tapping against the panes, and try to put the tangled years of my life onto paper. It feels like a confession and a comfort at once.
When the doctors finally discharged me from the local hospital, Brian—my husband for the past three years—rented a small van and, with the help of our neighbour, hauled my frail body back to the cottage we share on the edge of a Yorkshire farm. “Everything will be alright,” he whispered, his voice cracking with worry. “Just hold on, love. Sit with me and talk. Stay alive, my dear. I’ll manage everything. Don’t ever leave me, my little dove.” His words still echo in my mind, a mantra I cling to when the pain makes breathing a chore.
At thirty‑five I never imagined I would taste the happiness of a woman with a family of her own, yet fate had other plans. Brian and I met when we were both nearing forty; he had been widowed for three years, and I, never married, bore a child on my own. I once fell for a charming dark‑haired Owen from the town—a promise of marriage that turned out to be empty. He was already married, and his lawful‑wife even knocked on my door, begging me not to wreck his family. Young and naïve, I relented, but I kept the baby.
Ethan was born that spring, and he became my sole source of joy. He grew up well‑mannered, excelled at school, and later enrolled at Leeds University to study economics. Brian would drop by now and then, suggesting we settle down together. I wavered, though his company pleased me. One evening Ethan confessed his wish to see me happy: “Mum, I won’t stay at home forever. Uncle Brian is a reliable man. As long as he treats you kindly, I just want you to be content.” His words gave me the courage to accept.
We married in a modest ceremony, invited only our closest friends and the few neighbours who lent us a hand. I took a job at the village library; Brian worked the fields as an agronomist. Together we tended the livestock, cleared the garden beds, and kept the house running. We loved and respected each other, though the thought of never having children of our own weighed heavily on us.
Our sons married, grandchildren arrived, and every holiday we set a spread of home‑grown eggs, fresh milk, sour cream, pork, and chicken for them. The cottage filled with laughter and chatter; Brian and I would sit at the long wooden table, grateful for the company. Yet each night, when the house grew quiet and we slipped under our blankets, a solitary thought slipped into my mind: “May I be the first to leave this world, so I never feel alone again.”
Time took its toll. One morning, as I was stirring a pot of borscht, a sudden wave of dizziness overpowered me, and I collapsed onto the kitchen floor. Brian called for an ambulance with the help of our neighbour; the paramedics said I’d suffered a stroke. Most of my faculties returned, but I could no longer walk. Ethan and his wife visited, brought money for medication, and then hurried back to their own family.
Brian, ever the caretaker, stayed by my side. He brought in a comfortable armchair, and we continued to share chores—peeling potatoes, washing carrots, sorting beans, even baking bread together. In the evenings we talked about the harsh winter ahead, knowing his strength dwindled and that chopping firewood would soon be beyond him. I wondered if our children might take us in for the cold season, giving us some respite in spring and summer.
The weekend Ethan arrived with his wife Ellen. She surveyed the cramped room and announced, “It looks like we’ll have to split you two up. We’ll take Mum next week, get the spare room ready, and bring you back.” Brian murmured, “What about us? We never divorced. Our children—how can they take us apart?” He tried to argue that we had once been strong enough to manage on our own, but now everything had changed. “Let the son take you both in,” Ellen replied. “No one else will be able to.”
Ethan left, and Brian and I sat in a heavy silence, each of us staring at the ceiling, dreaming of a sleep that would never come. The following weekend both of our sons arrived, gathering our belongings. Brian perched on the edge of my bed, his eyes lingering on the lines of my face, remembering our youthful vigor. He whispered, “Forgive me, Nora, for all the times we fell short as parents. We were treated like stray kittens, discarded. I love you.” I tried to reach for his cheek, but my strength had faded. He brushed away his tears with his sleeve and, as he stepped into the van, he didn’t even wipe them away.
Our children and the neighbour bundled me into a blanket, lifted me onto a stretcher, and carried me out the front door, feet first. I thought it oddly symbolic, but I didn’t resist. The carriage rolled away, and I felt the world dim before the evening light slipped through the trees.
A week later, on a crisp autumn day, we finally met again—on the other side of the veil—at the Church of All Saints. In that peaceful place, the longing that had haunted us for years finally eased, and we were together once more.
