**Sun After the Rain…**
*March 15th*
“Emily, come here a moment. I’ve been down the cellar and got you some potatoes.”
Emily turned toward her neighbour’s yard.
“Oh, thank you, Aunt Margaret. I’ll pay you back, I promise.”
“Now, where’s that coming from? Bless your heart. Pay me back, indeed. Should’ve thought twice before having so many little ones. That Jack of yours was never a proper man, was he?”
Emily swallowed the bitter words. The next payday was a week away, and milk alone wouldn’t stretch far—not with three children waiting at home. Jack, the man her neighbour spoke of, had been her husband. Last year, he decided three kids weren’t worth the struggle, packed his things, and declared he wouldn’t live like a pauper. She’d been washing dishes at the time, and the plate slipped right from her hands.
“Jack, what are you saying? You’re supposed to be the man of the house. Get a decent job, and we won’t be struggling. These are *your* children. You always said you wanted a big family.”
“Wanted, yes. But I didn’t know the government wouldn’t lift a finger for families like ours. What’s the point of working myself to the bone for nothing?”
Her hands fell limp. “Jack… what about us? How am I supposed to manage alone?”
“Em, I don’t know. Honestly, why didn’t *you* put your foot down after the first one? You’re the woman—should’ve known better.”
He was out the door before she could reply, sprinting to the bus stop. Tears pricked her eyes—until she saw three little faces watching. Thomas, the eldest, was starting school this year. Little George was five, and their sunshine, Lily, had just turned two. Emily swallowed hard and forced a smile.
“Who’s up for pancakes?”
The children squealed—all except Thomas, who asked that evening, “Mum… is Dad never coming back?”
She fumbled for words, then simply said, “No, love.”
He sniffled, then squared his shoulders. “S’alright. We’ll manage. I’ll help.”
By the time she returned from the evening milking, the little ones were fed and tucked in. She marvelled at how quickly her boy had grown up.
***
After thanking Margaret for the potatoes, she trudged home. *Blimey, when will it warm up? This winter’s been downright cruel.* The potatoes would’ve lasted, but a sudden frost had ruined half the village’s stores. Folks pitied them—country people were kind like that—but never missed a chance to remind her she’d been a fool. A fool? Maybe. But she couldn’t imagine life without any of her three. They scraped by. New clothes and toys would’ve been nice, but the kids never asked. They knew she’d buy what she could, when she could. This year, she and Thomas had plans for a proper greenhouse—just plastic sheeting for now, but they’d calculated how many more jars of tomatoes and pickles they could put up.
Shifting the bucket to her other hand, she spotted a small crowd—well, a crowd for their village at this hour. Three people loitered by her fence. As she neared, she caught snippets:
“—Big brute, must’ve been a hunting dog.”
“Torn up bad. No saving him now.”
Emily followed their gaze and gasped. “Why’re you all just standing there? He needs help!”
The neighbours turned. “Don’t be daft, Em,” said one. “Look at those fangs—who’d risk it? Beast is done for anyway.”
“Done for? He came to *us* for help!”
On the snow lay a massive dog—whether a hunting breed or not, she couldn’t tell—with a vicious wound on its side. The others laughed and wandered off. No one wanted trouble.
Emily carefully stroked between the dog’s ears. “Hold on, just a bit longer. I’ll fetch a blanket, get you home.”
A rustle behind her. “Mum, I brought the blanket. And the old fridge door—we can use it as a stretcher.”
Thomas stood there, eyes wet. The dog whimpered, clamping down on the blanket, then went still—passed out from pain. The younger two watched wide-eyed from the sofa.
“Mum… will he live?”
Thomas patted the dog’s head as its clouded eyes flickered open. “He *has* to. We’ll take care of him.”
***
The next morning at the dairy, the women cornered her.
“Em, what were you thinking? Dragging some stray mongrel home, around the kids no less!”
“Aye. As if she hasn’t enough mouths to feed. Waste of time—either it’ll die or turn on them.”
Emily raised her voice. “Got nowt better to do than stick your noses in my business? Susan, didn’t I hear Jenny threatened to scalp you over your little *meetings* with her husband? And Tracy—might want to sort your own lad before judging mine. Fourteen and already boozing behind the shop!”
They recoaled. She’d never spoken back before.
*Mustn’t forget extra milk. Maybe Duke’ll drink it.* Thomas had named the dog. He barely left its side—fetching water, adjusting its head, tucking an old boot under for support. That evening, Duke lapped weakly at the milk.
“There’s a lad. You’ll pull through…”
And he did. Emily fed him like one of her own, skimping on her own meals. Three weeks later, he wobbled about the house. The kids petted him gently, still wary. Duke claimed a spot by Thomas’s bed. The village gossip didn’t stop, but Emily ignored it. Let them chatter—tongues were made to wag.
***
Spring arrived overnight. Emily and Thomas rushed to cover a plot with plastic, eager for an early harvest. Since taking in the dog, the neighbours’ help had dried up. *Fair enough. If I can feed a beast, I can feed my own.* She didn’t blame them. She’d chosen this—the kids, the dog, the uninsulated cellar. No one else’s fault.
While they worked, Duke and little George and Lily tumbled in the sun-dried grass, laughter ringing so loud even the neighbours peeked over fences.
“Rex!”
The dog froze, then yelped and cleared the fence in one bound, nearly knocking a stranger over. He licked the man’s face frantically as the man hugged him tight. Emily and the children gaped. Neighbours edged closer. It took fifteen minutes before man and dog calmed. The stranger met Emily’s gaze.
“Afternoon, missus. Spent half a year searching. Thought he died in that scrap with the boar.”
Thomas sniffled, understanding. “Mum nursed him. Stayed up nights bandaging him.”
The man—Oliver—looked at the children. Lily’s lip trembled.
“Now, now, no tears. I’m not taking him this instant. Fancy a cuppa?”
Emily flushed. “Course. Come in.”
Oliver hesitated. “Left my car at the village edge. I’ll fetch it. Rex might not understand if I go alone… Thomas, lad, come with me?”
Ordinarily, she’d refuse. But Duke—Rex—wouldn’t adore a bad man.
They returned swiftly. Emily blinked at the gleaming Range Rover. The village gawked. Oliver—an artist, businessman, hunter—was simply a good man. That day, they hadn’t even been hunting. The boar came out of nowhere. He’d searched for months, visiting every village. Ours was the last.
Thomas begged him to stay a few days. To her surprise, Oliver agreed.
“Fancy some manual labour. That fence needs mending, and Thomas mentioned a greenhouse.”
Emily flushed. “Oh, no, we couldn’t—”
“Don’t,” he said quietly. “You starved yourself for *my* dog. Think I don’t see that?”
***
A week later, it felt like Oliver had always been there. He fit seamlessly—fixing things, playing with the kids. She *wanted* him to leave. Because every glance, every accidental touch sent sparks through her. And worse—he felt it too.
That night, with the children asleep, she found him in the yard.
“Oliver… you should go.”
He nodded. “You’re right. But hear me first. I don’t mind three children. What scares me… is me. Five years ago, I lost my wife and kids. Their coach went off a cliff. The pain—it never leaves. I *like* you. Your children are wonderful. But I can’t… I won’t risk that pain again.”
She understood. “Go, then.”
He left that night.
Morning brought tears. Emily hushed them. “Imagine if someone kept *your* mum from you. Rex—Rex
