The villagers never knew the truth about her daughtershe was too ashamed to tell them. Among the belongings carefully set aside for her passing lay letters… from her daughter. Gladys picked them up and tucked them beneath the pillow of the deceased. Let them be buried with her, along with… her unbearable shame.
A True Story. A Shame Too Deep.
From a young age, Evelyn believed in dreams. It was just how things were. Sometimes, the girls in the village would share their dreams, and she would think carefully before telling them what it might mean. Rarely was she wrong. Her own dreams, though, she kept to herselfexcept for the ones where she flew. Oh, how she soared! High above the thatched roofs, the wind rushing past her, her heart pounding with exhilaration. One dream returned often: white horses with dappled grey coats pulling a sleigh, and insideher and Alfred, holding the reins. The horses would gather speed, then take off into the sky! Their breath would catch as they let go, clinging to each other as they soared among the clouds. That dream came again and again while Alfred was alive. After he passed, she still flew with the horses in her sleep, but now Alfred stood beside her, never taking the reins… just smiling. She loved those nighttime flights, though she knewdreaming of horses meant sickness… or death. Each time she flew, shed wake to a racing heart or pounding blood in her ears.
That night, they stood together in the sleigh once more. No one held the reins this time. The horses climbed higher and higher, until they reached a cloud where a little angel sat, tiny wings fluttering, smiling down. “Rosie! My Rosie!” Evelyn cried out so loudly in her sleep that she startled herself awake.
“Its time… Its time… to get ready,” she whispered to herself. No grief, no despair.
Her cottage was always tidy, so she swept the floor one last time, shook out the woven rugs, then opened the bundlethe one shed long prepared *for the end*. She laid everything out neatly, even leaving notes so no one would struggle to find what they needed. Who else would come but Gladys? She was the only one left nowmore a sister than a friend. The others were gone or too frail to visit. But Gladys was still spry. Shed come running.
Evelyn took out an old school notebook, a pen, and began to write.
*”Forgive me, Gladys. Youre the closest thing I have to family. Weve lived side by side like sisters… Dont tell anyone, I beg youdont speak of my shame. It wont hurt me anymore, not when Im gone, but still, I ask… For years, I lied. To the village, to youtelling everyone my daughter was kind, that she didnt visit because she was ill… The truth is, I dont know where she is. I think shes alive, but she left me long ago. To spare myself the shame, I spun tales… even to you. Dont wait for her. Dont search. Bury me beside Alfred, in the plot Ive kept. The cottage and everything in it is yours. Maybe your children will find use for it. I failed to raise my girl right… That shame is mine to carry. Let it go to the grave with me. Please, sister…”*
Evelyn stoked the hearth, closed the flue, and lay down to sleep.
Gladys had noticed the darkened windows the night before, but who could have guessed?
“Did she leave any note?” the constable asked, there to record the death of a lonely woman.
“Nothing,” Gladys murmured, crumpling the letter in her pocket. “Just the weight of loneliness, thats all…”
* * *
Her Rosie had been a beautybright, talented, beloved. Alfred, the married farm manager, had fallen for a simple labourer. In those days, such things cost a man his job, his standing… but somehow, he was only scolded, then forgotten. His wife moved to London, found a city man, while he and Evelyn built a lifebrief, and not near happy enough.
Horsesreal ones, like those in her dreamsbrought the tragedy. Alfred was cycling home late from the fields when they struck him in the dark. The rider was drunk, never saw him. If only someone had found him sooner! Evelyn waited all night, sleepless. They discovered him at dawn… already gone.
Men courted her after, but she paid them no mind. Rosie was her world. And for a time, Rosie was everything a mother could hope forclever, gifted in song and dance, the pride of the village. She even won a place at a prestigious arts college in London!
Evelyn doted on her, bringing food, visiting whenever she could. The first year, Rosie welcomed her, even came home often. But then… she grew distant. Sharp-tongued. Nothing pleased her. One visit, then anotherRosie wasnt in her dorm. Rumours spread: shed found a foreign sweetheart. Soon, she was expelled. Old classmates whispered hed led her to drugssomething unheard of in their village. The shame burned. A year later, a letter came: *”Forget me. Dont look for me. I have my own life now.”*
In the beet fields, Evelyn worked without straightening, letting tears fall into the soil.
Then, one autumn, she told the village women Rosie had married. “A week ago, I went to Londondidnt say a word, didnt want to jinx it! Her husbands an important man, travels the world. I wont see much of her now… But Ill treat you all!”
And she did. Lavishly. Tinned salmon, sausages none had tasted before*”From my son-in-law,”* shed say. The whole village buzzed. Over the years, shed make “trips to London”really just wandering the streets, hoping to glimpse her girl.
As age crept in, the “visits” grew rare. Rosie “wrote letters,” which Evelyn collected from the post office in town.
“Sit, Gladys, let me read Rosies latest!” shed say, unfolding pages. “Shed visit if she werent so poorly… No children yet, but her husband spoils her. Another parcel coming soon!”
Then shed bring out treatsyogurt, bananas, sliced hamthings Gladys marveled at.
“Tastes like heaven!” Gladys would later tell the women by the shop. “Melts in your mouth! That Evelyn, living like a queen!”
Yearly, the village paper printed birthday wishes from Rosiewords so tender, they stirred envy.
In time, no one questioned whether Rosie was real. Evelyn aged quietly, her secret kept.
* * *
Gladys read the letter again and again. *”Dear God,”* she cursed silently. *”All those treatsher pension spent just so Id believe… If only shed told me the truth! The weight mightve been lighter…”*
“Well bury her without her daughter,” she told the mourners. “Too ill to come, poor lamb. That husbands always abroad. Well manage without them.”
Among the bundled belongings lay the letters… from a daughter who never was. Gladys tucked them beneath the pillow. Let them rest in the grave… along with the shame too heavy to bear.
