Happiness had found its way back into Emma’s heart. For some time now, she had noticed how her husband, Thomas, would discreetly clutch his left side, near his heart. He’d rub it gently, then quickly drop his hand, glancing around to see if she’d noticed. More than once, she had asked him,
“Does it hurt again, Thomas? You ought to see a doctor at the clinic.”
“It’ll pass. Just a little ache,” he’d always reply, brushing it off.
Nine years they had lived together in the village, both arriving fresh from university—Thomas from agricultural college, Emma from teacher training. But she’d never taken up teaching, for Thomas loved farming, and their yard was always full of animals: two cows, sheep, a pig, chickens, and ducks. Someone had to care for them, so Emma stayed home, on her feet all day while Thomas worked as a farm manager.
Emma had been raised by her grandmother since she was thirteen, her parents lost in a house fire while she was away visiting. Thomas was born in the village, but within three years of their wedding, his father died of a heart attack, and his mother followed not long after.
So it was just the two of them. Life was good, but there were no children. Both had hoped, prayed—Emma even wept at night, begging God for a baby. But none came.
One morning, Thomas finished breakfast and got ready for work, but then he clutched his chest again. Before Emma could reach him, he collapsed. The ambulance came quickly, but it was too late.
After the funeral, Emma wept for days, lost in her grief.
“Alone at thirty,” she murmured. “Why is life so cruel? I loved my husband, and God took him from me. Took them all. What did I do to deserve this?”
Mornings, she milked the cows in tears.
“What’s the point of all this livestock? I do it because I can’t bear to neglect them—they need feeding, the cows need milking…” Sometimes she sobbed, thinking no one heard.
But Margaret, the deputy headmistress from the village school, overheard her one day and stopped by.
“Emma, I hear you crying. I understand. Why don’t you sell the animals? What use are they to you now? The primary school in the next village needs a teacher. You could work there. Our school is fully staffed, but theirs takes the younger children—just five miles away. At least you’d be among people, distracted. Say yes—you’re a teacher, after all.”
“Thank you, Margaret. You’re right…” Emma agreed.
By summer’s end, she had sold all the animals and moved to the neighbouring village by September. Emma Wilson, the pleasant new teacher, settled into a spacious house. She scrubbed the windows, tidied every corner.
“Well, here’s my new life,” she said aloud. “Though the fence is falling apart, and the gate won’t close. I’ll have to fix it.”
She asked for help, and they provided the picket fence materials. But she’d have to arrange the labour herself.
“Sarah,” she called to her neighbour, who was hanging laundry, “do you know anyone who could mend my fence? I’ve got the wood.”
Sarah wiped her hands on her apron and stepped closer.
“There’s a carpenter—skilled, but he drinks. Won’t lift a finger without a bottle. Blame his wife, Lucy. They’ve been at it since they married. He was sober before. They’ve two little girls—four and two—but social services took them six months ago. Don’t go yourself—I’ll tell Mike when I see him.”
“Thank you, Sarah.”
The next day, Sarah returned.
“Saw Lucy by the shop—they’ll come tomorrow. Just buy a couple of bottles of wine. They won’t work otherwise.”
Sure enough, Mike and Lucy arrived the next morning, reeking of drink. Mike dropped his tools and surveyed the yard. Emma stepped outside.
“Morning, missus,” Lucy bellowed. Mike nodded in greeting.
He was scruffy, unshaven, but his eyes were clear and bright. For a moment, Emma froze—they reminded her of her late husband’s gaze.
“The wood’s over there,” she gestured.
“We’ve got eyes, love,” Lucy slurred, plonking herself on the steps. “Got anything to drink? Fetch it out. Need to wet the whistle.”
She poured wine into two glasses. Mike drank, then got to work.
Emma fretted. “If they keep drinking, how will he manage? And what if he doesn’t come back tomorrow?” But she stayed silent. “Well, let it be. Sarah wouldn’t steer me wrong.”
Despite the drink, Mike was a fine craftsman. The village knew—once he started a job, he finished it right. Lucy stayed by, refilling his glass as he worked. By dusk, the fence stood straight, the gate hung true, even a little hook to keep it from swinging wide.
Emma paid them, thanked them.
“Come back if you need owt,” Lucy said. Mike nodded, gathered his tools, and they left.
Winter came. Emma settled into teaching, grateful to Margaret. The children warmed her heart, and they adored Miss Wilson in return. Christmas approached. One night, a knock startled her awake. She checked the clock—six in the morning, nearly time to rise.
The knock came again. She opened the door to find Mike on the step.
“Lucy’s dead,” he murmured. “Didn’t hear her leave. Woke up, she was gone. Found her near your house… frozen. We drank last night. Probably went looking for more and found her end.” His voice was flat. “Don’t know what to do. She’s just lying there…”
The village buried Lucy together, helping Mike through the wake. He drank for a week after. Then, one evening, another quiet knock. Emma knew it was him.
“Nine days since Lucy’s gone. Let’s remember her.”
Emma was baffled.
“You’ve mates—why come to me? I don’t drink.” She sighed. “Fine, come in.”
Mike poured wine for himself, then her. She sipped politely; he drank deep.
“What do I tell the girls when they ask about their mum? They’ll never give ’em back to me now. I miss ’em.” He pulled a crumpled photo from his pocket—two little girls with his clear eyes.
“My God, they’ve your eyes,” Emma said, her heart twisting. “If only they were mine…” The thought flickered. “What if…”
Without hesitation, she spoke.
“Let’s marry. I’ll take the girls—they won’t give them to me alone. I need to be a proper family. You can live as you please—I won’t tie you down. I mean it, Mike. Let’s do it.”
They married. The village whispered, tapping their heads.
“Couldn’t she find a better man?”
Only Sarah understood. Emma didn’t explain. She gathered documents, fought through red tape, and finally brought the girls home.
When Mike saw them, he wept. The elder, Lily, frowned.
“Daddy, you smell funny.” Little Rose just hugged him.
Oddly, they never asked about their mother. Lily simply said,
“This is our mummy Emma. She loves us. We live here now. It’s clean and big.”
Emma enrolled them in the village nursery while she taught. Mike visited sometimes. Once, she asked where to buy a cow. He stared at her slender frame.
“Don’t look like that. I can milk—we had two cows before. I’ll manage.”
Mike found one for sale—old Mrs. Jenkins couldn’t keep up. Emma bought it. Soon, chickens pecked in the yard, a pig grunted in the sty.
Mike visited often, playing with the girls, but his heart wasn’t in it. His mates still dragged him to the pub. Then one day, Lily said,
“Daddy, don’t come drunk and dirty.”
It stung, but he knew she was right. Then he saw Emma straining with a wheelbarrow of muck. He rushed over, grabbing it.
“Why so much?”
He cleaned the sty, threw hay to the cow, then left. At home, he gripped his head.
“What am I doing? A stranger’s raising my girls, calling her ‘Mum,’ loving her. She dresses ’em neat, keeps the house spotless, feeds ’em proper. And the way she looks at me…”
He slammed his fist on the table. It was time to change.
He cut off his mates, tidied his house, swore off drink. A week passed without visiting.
When his friends came, he barred the door.
“Piss off with your bottle. I’m done drinking.”
“You ill or summat?” one jeered. Mike clenched his fist; they slunk away, cursing.
Ten days later, Rose ran inside.
“Mummy, a man’s here!”
Emma stepped out. Lily, Rose, and she watched as a clean-shaven, neatly dressed man
