The Fragile Woman
In September, a new girl named Lucy joined the class. She was so slender and delicate, it seemed a strong gust of wind might snap her in two. Always wrapped in a thick cardigan, her bony shoulders poked through the fabric like sharp little wings. Her fine, fair hair was plaited into wispy braids tied with oversized pink ribbons. Her large eyes, set in a pale, triangular face, always looked sad and startled.
To tall, athletic Matthew, she seemed like a fairytale princess—someone to protect and cherish—and he threw himself into the role with enthusiasm. But the other girls took an instant dislike to her.
“Nothing but skin and bones, yet she acts like she’s something special,” they hissed in the corridors. “How does she even stay upright? And now she’s snagged the handsomest boy in school.”
Lucy never ate in the canteen. The smell of institutional food made her queasy. Instead, she brought a single large apple each day, taking tiny, agonizingly slow bites, never finishing it by the end of break. The girls sneered at the half-eaten core left in the bin. Matthew wolfed down his lunch and rushed to her side.
He carried her satchel, walked her home, and none of the lads dared mock him for it—not when Matthew was known for his strength. Soon, everyone grew used to seeing them together.
After school, Matthew fought his parents—hard—and refused to leave for university in the city. He didn’t care where he studied, so long as he stayed with Lucy. He enrolled at the local college instead. Lucy’s parents adored him, trusting him completely with their fragile daughter. She did well in her studies, but exams left her exhausted, barely scraping through. Higher education was out of the question.
Lucy was a late child, and her parents fussed over her—God forbid she catch a chill or get too stressed. Though, truth be told, she wasn’t often ill.
At a family meeting, they decided a woman’s true purpose wasn’t education but a good marriage. And on that front, things were perfect. Matthew was an ideal match. Lucy’s mother, a doctor, secured her a job as the clinic director’s secretary. So Lucy sat in the reception, typing letters and answering calls.
Only Matthew’s parents disapproved. This wasn’t the bride they’d dreamed of for their son. They begged him to reconsider—didn’t he see what kind of life he was signing up for? She’d never be his equal, might not even bear children…
But Matthew never thought about that. He simply liked shielding this fragile girl. It made him feel stronger. He loved how different she was from the others, how her enormous grey eyes clung to him. Yet his parents’ nagging wore him down, and one day, he proposed.
Her parents rejoiced—such a fine husband for their daughter! Now they could die in peace, knowing she’d be cared for. Of course, Lucy wasn’t used to housework, so they decided the newlyweds would live with them until they adjusted. Their flat was bigger, after all.
Matthew’s parents relented. At least their son wouldn’t starve.
The young couple lived quietly, harmoniously. There was nothing to argue about. When Lucy became pregnant, her parents barely believed it. Even late into the term, her belly hardly showed. And no one ever heard so much as a sigh from their bedroom at night.
Lucy wasn’t allowed to lift anything heavier than a book, lest she lose the baby. Her parents even banished Matthew to a separate couch.
He hated sleeping apart and began staying at his parents’ instead. Again, everyone approved—though his mother never missed a chance to remind him he’d shackled himself to a weakling, doomed to serve her forever. Furious, he stormed out, heading to the pub.
One such evening, he met Samantha—a curvy, vivacious brunette with a bold laugh. The attraction was instant, reckless. They tumbled into each other’s arms like starving animals. And with each stolen meeting, their passion burned hotter.
Matthew’s parents scolded him for abandoning his wife when she needed him most. But Lucy didn’t seem to mind. She was lost in herself, in the tiny life kicking inside her, stirring a hunger she’d never known. The baby calmed only outdoors, so she spent hours on the balcony, reading.
Perhaps the child took after his father, impatient and restless—he arrived early. Small but sturdy, with Matthew’s features, even Lucy’s parents couldn’t deny the resemblance.
Matthew was with Samantha when it happened. He only learned he was a father the next day, when his mother called. He rushed to the hospital, staring up at the window where Lucy lay, frailer than ever.
At home, he carried the baby while Lucy shuffled weakly beside him. It was a marvel she’d survived childbirth. Yet despite her girlish frame, milk came in abundance, and the boy thrived—within a month, he was plump and loud, a proper little bruiser.
Lucy’s parents took over the baby’s care, letting her only push the pram. She’d gaze at her sleeping son and marvel—he was all Matthew, nothing of her.
At first, Matthew raced home after work. Then, gradually, he returned to Samantha. But he always slept beside Lucy.
Both sets of parents sighed but let him be. He’d sow his wild oats and come to his senses.
Only Samantha grew impatient. “Why cling to that dried-up stick?” she demanded. “She’s useless in bed and the kitchen. Choose—her or me.”
The fights drained him. Lucy, by contrast, never complained. She’d smile when he came home, chattering about their son’s latest antics. Holding the boy, Matthew’s heart would swell. Yet still, the pull toward Samantha was fierce.
Until it ended. After a vicious row, he stayed away for days. When he returned, her neighbor handed him a letter: she’d found another man and left. Don’t look for me. Forget me.
That night, Matthew drank himself senseless, stumbling to his parents’ door and collapsing. When he sobered, he went back to Lucy. She asked no questions, just smiled, glad he was home. And little Christopher clung to him—only Daddy could toss him in the air, play horsey on all fours.
In his son and wife, Matthew found solace. Evenings were for Christopher now, who adored him unquestioningly. Both boisterous, both alike. Lucy knew she didn’t belong in their rough-and-tumble world, but she didn’t mind, yielding the role of nurturer gladly.
When Christopher was in Year 6, Lucy’s father died. Her mother followed a year and a half later, heartbroken. Lucy had to learn housekeeping then. Matthew and Christopher helped—vacuuming, shopping. With Matthew’s mother’s guidance, Lucy even learned to cook.
Christopher, following his father’s example, took over the heavy chores when Matthew was at work. Neighbors cooed at the sight—Christopher, nearly as tall as his dad now, with Lucy beside them like a reed.
“Why does she get all the luck?” one woman muttered. “My daughter’s husband drinks or fools around, while hers got served on a silver platter.”
Matthew’s mother died of cancer as Christopher finished school. His father grieved, then faded. Lucy tried to comfort him, but a year later, he too was gone.
How did she outlive them all? A storm breaks the mighty oak but only bends the slender sapling.
Christopher went to university in the city, married a fiery beauty named Melanie.
Passion was behind them now; Matthew and Lucy grew old together. His heart grew unreliable. Gone were the days of pull-up contests with Christopher. Now a belly strained his shirt, his hair thinned. Even Lucy’s strands turned silver—yet she remained as slight as ever, untouched by time.
When another attack landed Matthew in hospital, Lucy brought fresh juices and broth daily, chattering news as he listened, seeing still the girl who’d walked into his classroom decades ago.
“Forgive me,” he whispered once.
“For what? If anything, I’m the one who failed you.” She pressed his hand to her lips.
Months later, he died in his sleep—a blood clot, the doctor said. At the funeral, Christopher arrived with his eldest. Lucy wept at the sight—he looked more like Matthew than ever.
“Come live with us, Mum,” Christopher urged afterward.
She shook her head. “I’ll manage. Once your boy’s older, send him to me. The air’s cleaner here, the schools are good. You’ll visit more.”
So she stayed alone, tending the graves in turn, saving Matthew’s for last. She’d stand there, whispering updates to his photo.
She believed he still watched over her. Where else would her strength come from? She creaked like old timber but never grumbled, puttering about the house, murmuring fond memories.
Then even Matthew’s father passed.
God had given Lucy a frail body, a flicker of life—yet she outlasted them all.
Christopher moved his family back to their hometown. There was joy in that.
Lucy swapped flats, taking his parents’ smaller one, leavingShe closed her eyes one final evening, and in her dreams, Matthew—young and strong again—took her hand, whispering, “Come home, Lucy,” and she followed without looking back.
