THE WIDOWER
Edward had loved Beatrice since their school days. Petite, delicate, with a sprinkle of freckles across her nose—that was how he first saw her, and even then, in the sixth form, he fell head over heels.
Beatrice was three years younger, always top of her class, quiet and shy. Edward adored her more with each passing year, watching her from afar as she skipped rope in the yard with her friends, light as a butterfly. When he returned from his service, he went straight to Beatrice with a bouquet, asking for her hand.
Her father, a stern and serious man, spoke with Edward privately before finally smiling and giving his blessing.
The wedding was merry, with even distant relatives making the journey. For three days, the village celebrated. Beatrice’s eyes sparkled with joy, and Edward swelled with pride—he had won the finest bride in the county.
Two years later, with his parents’ help, Edward built a house. Beatrice fluttered about in delight, moving in just three months before their first child was born.
They named the girl Eleanor, after Beatrice’s grandmother. The baby was strong and healthy, but the birth had taken its toll on Beatrice. For a year afterward, she was pale and weak. Edward took her to every doctor, but they only shook their heads, saying time would heal her.
When Eleanor was a year and a half old, Beatrice discovered she was expecting again. The doctors urged her to end the pregnancy—her body was too frail, they said. Even if she carried the child, she might not survive the birth.
Edward begged her to listen, but Beatrice would not yield.
“I won’t kill my own child!” she declared. “He’s done no wrong by wanting to live. Whatever happens, it’s God’s will.”
Her final month, Beatrice lay in hospital while Edward waited at home, restless with foreboding. His heart knew the storm coming.
It did not deceive him. Beatrice’s heart gave out in childbirth, but before she left this world, she brought forth twin girls.
Edward was inconsolable. At the graveside, he stared at the mound of earth with hollow eyes, his life with Beatrice flashing before him—her laughter ringing in his ears like a bell. When the coffin was lowered, he fell to his knees and howled like a wounded beast.
“How can I go on without you? What am I to do?” His tears fell freely, his soul a gaping void where his heart had been.
After the funeral, he drowned himself in drink—deep, black, unrelenting. He drank to forget, to silence her voice in his mind.
Beatrice’s parents took the girls, believing Edward too broken to care for them.
Forty nights after her passing, Edward collapsed drunk in the barn and dreamed. Beatrice appeared in a white dress, her auburn hair loose and glowing in the dawn light. She stroked his head and spoke softly, as she once had.
“Eddie, my love, what are you doing? Aren’t you ashamed?” She narrowed her green eyes and wagged a finger. “Our girls miss their father. They need you, just as I did. If you ever loved me, don’t abandon them—love them as you loved me.”
He woke sober, the morning sun warming his face. At sunrise, he went to Beatrice’s parents, clean-shaven and composed, his eyes wiser than his years. Wordlessly, he kissed her mother’s hand, embraced her father, and took his daughters home.
From then on, the four lived together. Edward learned to cook, mend clothes, even braid hair better than any mother. The girls thrived, praised at school for their diligence and kindness. If anyone wronged them, Edward swooped in like a hawk.
Neighbors often asked why he never remarried. “You’re still young, handsome, healthy,” they said. He’d only smile and reply, “I’m already wed.”
“Look around—I’ve three brides at home. Should I fetch a fourth? No, four would be too many to manage.”
So, with jokes and sleepless nights, with half-eaten meals and hard labour, he raised his three beauties. When they were older, a widow from the village began visiting, bringing dried mushrooms or pickled herring, making her intentions plain.
Seeing she wouldn’t take a hint, Edward invited her in one evening.
“Which of my girls do you love most?” he asked.
“Your girls?” She scoffed. “They’ll fly the nest soon. Must you live alone forever? I love *you*, not them.”
Edward handed her a photograph. “Here’s my portrait. Love me all you like—from home.”
The widow left empty-handed.
The girls grew, went to university, but never forgot their father. Every weekend, they returned, helping with chores and the garden.
In time, Edward gave each away in marriage, speaking privately with their suitors as his father-in-law once had. He wished only happiness for his three little princesses.
Now, his girls were women with families of their own. Yet not one forgot him. On holidays, they came with children and grandchildren, filling his cottage with laughter.
On his eighty-first birthday, Edward dreamed again. He stood in a field, young and strong, his hair dark as night. Toward him ran Beatrice—barefoot in her white dress, sunlight tangled in her curls. He spread his arms wide, his heart pounding as if to burst from his chest.
They embraced, and she looked up at him, whispering,
“My darling Eddie, you’ve done so well. You gave our girls a beautiful life. I’ve watched over you every day.” She took his hand. “Come now. We’ll be together forever.”
Hand in hand, they walked through grass thick and green as emerald.
At his funeral, all his kin gathered. His daughters grieved deeply, yet each understood:
Now, he was with the woman he had loved all his life.
This tale is the true story of a good man—a father in every sense. My grandmother knew him well, as did the village. Such is the way of love: a man may choose a life of sacrifice for his daughters, not for himself.
