A woman gave her newborn grandson to strangers. This is how it turned out.
In her dreams, he would visit—a boy standing at the threshold, asking to come in. But he never stepped further, never crossed that line. She could never see his face, only his eyes, glowing like embers in the dark. She feared him, as if he were a ghost. When he was little and feverish, he would cry out for his mother, and she would lie beside him, whispering prayers and holding him close.
Life goes on. The Sowing
Her cottage had long been forgotten by the village children who once came for the old tradition of “sowing”—scattering wheat for luck and receiving a coin or a biscuit in return. Now they ran to houses where they’d get a shiny pound instead of dry bread. Martha’s homemade gin wasn’t the finest either—just rough and strong. Only Fred, the neighbour, ever stumbled in when he’d had too much elsewhere, swaying on unsteady legs.
*”Sow and grow, for happiness, for health, for the new year… pour me one, Martha!”* he’d slur, reciting the old saying by rote.
She’d pour him a drink, then take one herself—it made sleep come easier. If only Fred could keep his mouth shut, but no, he always found a way to twist the knife.
*”This is how we end up, Martha… me and my old woman, like two rotten stumps in the woods. No one left. But you? You’ve got a daughter!”*
*”Drink and hold your tongue, like a dog on a chain! Yes, I’ve a daughter—somewhere! So take your nonsense and go home!”* she snarled, shoving him toward the door.
Fred didn’t hurry. He leaned in with a sneer, his breath thick with spirits.
*”I know why you’re angry… we all know. You gave your grandson away. Tell me it’s a lie! Go on! And d’you know what the village women say? That boy haunts your dreams! That’s why your windows glow at night—you’re afraid! Aren’t you? Hah!”*
*”Listen here, you drunken fool! Get out! Never come back!”* Martha grabbed his grubby collar and dragged him out like a mangy cat, slamming the door behind him.
Fred never returned—not for a drink, not for idle chatter. Maybe out of shame, maybe fear. She might’ve forgiven him if he had. But he had spoken the truth, and truth stings.
The boy still came to her in dreams—always at the doorstep, always silent. She never saw his face. Only those shining eyes…
* * *
The sun was high when Martha accepted Fred wouldn’t visit today. She poured herself a drink—holiday or not, she needed it. Outside, Rex the dog barked, then the porch door creaked. A visitor.
*”Good health to you! May I sow?”* A handsome young man stood at the threshold.
Martha shot up from the table. *”Come in, if you’re here to sow…”*
*”For luck, for health…”* He scattered wheat, his eyes darting around the cottage.
She watched him closely. Was he here to rob her? If only Fred would walk in now…
*”Did you want something else? Or just to sow? Who are you looking for?”* she asked hesitantly.
*”It’s only right to offer the sower a drink, isn’t it?”* He stepped forward, pulling wine, sausage, and cakes from his bag.
Martha, bewildered, fetched potatoes and roasted bacon from the stove. The stranger helped set the table with practised ease. *”Must be one of Lucy’s lads,”* she thought. *”But he seems too young. Why would she send him?”*
He poured the wine while she hesitated. She had to say something.
*”You’re not from here. Who are you looking for?”*
*”I am. Are you Martha Evans?”*
*”I am.”*
*”Was your husband Peter Evans?”*
*”Was. He’s gone now.”*
*”And your daughter—Lucy Evans?”*
*”Yes… yes…”*
*”Then I’m your grandson. Victor.”* He stood, offering his hand across the table. *”Pleased to meet you.”*
The room spun. The boy from her dreams stood before her—same eyes, same silent plea.
Martha gasped, stumbling. Strong hands caught her, easing her onto the bench.
*”Don’t be afraid. I’m not here to blame you. I just… wanted to see you. This house. The place I was turned away.”* His voice was steady. *”My real mother died recently. Before she passed, she told me everything. So I came.”*
Martha wept—not loudly, but in quiet, shuddering breaths. For the first time, she told the whole story. Victor listened, never looking away. When she finished, he stood, glanced around the cottage, and walked out as abruptly as he’d come.
*”Live in peace. God will judge you… not me.”*
By the time she stumbled to the gate, his car was already gone. She hadn’t caught the number, the make—hadn’t even asked where he lived.
* * *
Lucy had been an obedient girl.
*”You’ll be a teacher!”* her father decided. *”No marriage until you’ve finished your studies!”*
She didn’t argue, though her parents already had a groom in mind—Andrew, a soldier with prospects. *”A good match,”* her mother urged. *”You’ll live comfortably, away from this village.”*
Andrew was older, charming. When he visited on leave, girls flocked to him. But he chose Lucy. *”Wait three years for me,”* he said. *”It’s not long. We’ll write letters. Then we’ll marry.”*
She promised.
But being a fiancée was harder than she’d thought. When loneliness crept in, she found solace in another—Leo, a reckless student. No promises, no strings. Until she slipped, mentioning Andrew. Leo’s hands turned cruel.
Her mother arrived before the bruises faded. One glance, and Martha knew—Lucy was pregnant.
Leo begged to marry her. Martha refused. *”Stay out of the village. Andrew’s family mustn’t know.”* Her father transferred Lucy to another university, another city.
Closer to the birth, Lucy “fell ill.” Her parents took her to a private clinic. *”Meningitis,”* they told everyone. *”She might not survive.”*
The baby—a healthy boy—was born. Lucy never held him. Never looked.
*”Would Leo give me anything?”* she told herself. *”He’s nothing like Andrew. Andrew must never know.”*
Letters to Andrew went to her parents’ address. When he returned, they married in a lavish ceremony. Martha beamed with pride.
The young couple moved to the city. When they visited, Lucy boasted of their new life—their flat, their things. Martha swelled with pride, but her husband grew quiet. One night, drunk, he struck her. *”You’re no mother! You threw away a child!”*
Years passed. Visits grew rare. Then Lucy arrived alone. *”Andrew and I are done,”* she said coldly.
Later, Andrew stormed in. *”You’re not human! How could you abandon a child? Even animals love their young!”* He spat at Martha’s feet and left.
Lucy drifted from one man to another. Martha scolded her. Eventually, she stopped visiting altogether.
*”You ruined my life!”* Lucy had screamed. *”Now I’ll live as I please!”*
Where was she now? Martha didn’t know. If she had, she might’ve given Victor an address.
* * *
Victor felt lighter, as if stepping from a long bath. The weight was gone.
When his father—a surgeon—died of a heart attack, Victor took his place at the clinic. Colleagues said he’d inherited his father’s golden hands, his kind heart. He adored his parents, loved hearing how much he resembled them.
Then his mother fell ill. Reviewing her old medical records one night, he found it—a diagnosis that made no sense. *How could she have given birth to me after this surgery?*
He confronted her. Weak but calm, she told him everything—the adoption, the village, the woman who’d let him go.
After her death, he went to see that woman. The cottage was familiar—like in his childhood dreams. The woman at the door had the same hollow eyes.
Now he knew.
He drove away, leaving Martha at the gate.
His real mother was the one who’d raised him. The one who’d held him when he cried. The one he’d loved.
That would never change.
