Memories, Love, and a New Bond
Hope and her husband Alfred sat at the dining table in their cosy cottage in the village of Oak Hollow when a knock startled them. At the door stood Faith, Hope’s old schoolmate. The couple exchanged glances, their faces etched with surprise. Faith rarely visited, and her arrival was unexpected.
“Come in, Faith,” said Hope, masking her confusion. “You’ve caught us off guard, I must say.”
“I won’t beat around the bush,” Faith began, stepping inside. “I reckon you, like me, want your children close and happy—”
“You’re speaking in riddles,” Alfred frowned. “Sit down. Hope’s made a fine stew—help yourself.”
“My son’s decided to wed,” Faith blurted, her gaze steady.
“Well then! What’s that to do with us?” Alfred set down his spoon, baffled.
The air grew thick as Hope and Alfred struggled to grasp their guest’s meaning.
Days earlier, Hope and her daughter Lillian had strolled through the village lanes. Two neighbours huddled by the roadside, chatting animatedly until they spotted Hope. Falling silent, they turned, eager for news of her visit to her eldest son.
After exchanging pleasantries, Hope briefly spoke of her grandson and his mother before moving on. Then a woman passed by, flashing a bright smile.
“Hello, old schoolmate! How are you? No time for a gossip?”
Hope met her dark, lashed eyes and smiled. “Home calls—haven’t seen Alfred in three days. I’ve missed him.”
Faith’s smirk was sharp. “Oh, love comes and goes. If you need sympathy, you know where to find me.”
Hope’s reply was light. “Your eyes brim with pity, but I doubt its sincerity.”
As they walked on, Lillian frowned. “Mum, why is she so spiteful? Always nettling you.”
“Just her way,” Hope said, though she knew the truth.
“She needles you every time! Yet you always parry her. Why?”
“Want the truth?” Hope chuckled. “Faith fancied your father—but he chose me.”
Lillian gasped. “Truly? He loved you both and picked you? Why?”
“Ask your father,” Hope teased.
That evening, after supper, Lillian curled beside Alfred as he watched the telly. “Dad,” she ventured, “why did you pick Mum over Aunt Faith?”
Alfred glanced at Hope, who smiled. “Go on—she’s curious.”
“Long ago, but clear as yesterday,” he began. “At the school New Year’s ball, your mum was the Snow Queen, and my mate Thomas played Father Christmas. That blue dress matched her eyes, her plait down to her waist—my heart leaped. I knew then I’d want her by my side forever.”
“I was shy, though,” he admitted. “Waited for courage. After school, when she left to study in London, I’d wander the village, hoping to glimpse her on weekends. Once, I saw her leaving the shop. Mustered my nerve, told her I was enlisting. Thought she’d brush me off—but she wept. ‘So I shan’t see you for ages?’ she said. Near leapt for joy! I hugged her, whispered, ‘Two years will fly. Write me, aye?’ She nodded, kissed my cheek, and fled home.”
“The letters made service bearable,” Alfred smiled. “Returned, proposed straight off, and here we are.”
“What a lovely tale!” Lillian sighed.
“Hey, too soon for you to fret over weddings,” he winked.
Laughter followed her swift exit.
Faith and Hope had been classmates—Faith sturdy and sharp-featured, Hope delicate yet strong. With three brothers, Hope trained alongside them, soon matching their pull-ups. One gym class, she stunned the lads by outperforming them. Respect followed; the girls seethed behind sneers.
Hope’s kindness disarmed barbs—she’d retort with proverbs or wit.
By sixth form, suitors flocked. Faith fancied Alfred, leaving notes, beckoning him to dances. But post-army, he proposed to Hope. A silent feud began.
Faith wed a classmate, settling near Hope, who bore a son. Years passed—Hope had three children; Faith remained childless. Doctors found no cause, but Faith suspected an old folly: a pregnancy ended in her youth.
Each of Hope’s births twisted the knife. Yet fate relented—Faith bore a son, Andrew, near Lillian’s birth.
The boys grew close. When Lillian was seven, Hope had her youngest.
Lately, Hope and Lillian returned from visiting her eldest. On the lane, Faith seized a chance to nettle her old rival, unaware Lillian would soon reshape their ties.
Andrew, tipsy after a lads’ night, loitered outside when Lillian passed, groceries in hand. Head high, she ignored the group.
“Oi, beauty—no hello?” Andrew teased, winking at his mates.
Lillian paused, curtsied playfully. “How fares your lordship upon domestic pillows?”
Laughter erupted as she strode off.
“What was that?” Andrew gaped.
“You’ve been outmatched,” his friends crowed.
“Who is she?”
“Your mate Samuel’s sister—Hope Whitmore’s lass. Sharp as a tack, that one.”
“Samuel’s sister? But she’s just a kid—”
“Not anymore—second year in London.”
Andrew was smitten. Her green eyes haunted him. At the shop, she merely smiled past him. Once, he lurked by their garden, but Alfred’s appearance sent him scrambling.
Dances were his last hope. Yet Lillian wasn’t among the girls.
“There’s Olive—and isn’t that your lass?” a mate nudged.
Andrew’s pulse raced—Lillian in sapphire blue. During a slow tune, he approached. Rejected. He glowered, watching her refuse others too.
On his third try, she relented.
“Mocking me?” he muttered. “Came just for you.”
“Testing,” she smiled. “Three asks proves you’re earnest.”
Dizzy from her grin, he walked her home—she dared not linger, fearing Alfred’s wrath.
Next eve, Andrew vaulted their fence, lurking by the shed. As Lillian emptied a pail, he swept her up.
“Caught you, my dove,” he whispered.
She wriggled free, darting inside. Andrew, elated, plotted his next move.
Sunday lunch was interrupted by knocking. Faith stood there—her sole prior visit being Hope’s mother’s wake.
“Faith,” Hope said, masking unease. “This is grave indeed.”
“It is,” Faith nodded. “Andrew’s set to wed. Says if I don’t arrange it, he’ll leave for good.”
“Blimey! What’s that to us?” Alfred frowned.
“He’s chosen your Lillian,” Faith declared.
Lillian gasped, fled. Alfred froze mid-bite.
“Come again? My daughter?!”
“First, your thoughts,” Faith pressed. “If agreed, we’ll call proper, with gifts.”
“Agree? She’s barely—”
“Eighteen, Alf,” Hope interjected. “Don’t fuss.”
“You’d let her go so young?” His voice quavered.
“They’re always our babes,” Hope said. “But her choice matters most.”
She slipped out, kettle in hand.
“I’ll not allow it!” Alfred stormed.
“And how old was Hope when you wed?” Faith smirked. “You broke my heart—now Andrew’s chosen your girl. Speak with her, then we’ll see.”
Hope returned. “She’s willing. Alf, it’s time.”
Two hours of pleading wore him down.
“Very well,” Faith said, producing champagne, sweets, and an emerald scarf. “For Lillian—matches her eyes. Next weekend, we’ll call formal.”
Toasts made, Faith paused at the door.
“Let bygones lie. Fear not for Lillian—Andrew adores her, my only son. I’ll see them happy.”
Faith kept her word. Till her last day, she bolstered Andrew and Lillian, forging a steadfast union.
They say mothers-in-law and brides seldom harmonise. Yet never forget—the mother gave life to the husband you cherish. For that, she deserves gratitude and grace.
