The Stepmother with a Mothers Heart
Not so long ago, the wedding bells had rung. Not so long ago, all the kin had gathered, singing, dancing, and merrymaking, and none could have guessed it would be their last meeting. Only the mother-in-law sat scowling in the corner. She had taken an instant dislike to the delicate, slender bride. “Aye, pretty enough,” she muttered, “but what good is beauty if she cant lift a bundle of hay or carry a pail of water? Ive worked my fingers to the bone all my life, thought my lad would bring home a strong lass to take my placenot a burden.”
Martha chewed over her grievances, her resentment festering, and Mary could not help but notice. Michael soothed his young wife but warned her his mother would show no mercy. “Shes no love for the slight or the frail,” he said. “Strength, she valuesstrong arms, a broad back, quick strides. Why, shed haul my drunken father to bed with one hand and hitch a horse while the stable lads stood clear. Ploughed the fields straight-backed, turning the earth smooth as glass. In haymaking, shed stack a rick in an hour while others fumbled half a day and still made a sorry heap.”
God had given her a mans strength, it seemed, and taken a womans tenderness in exchange. Marys own mother had been reluctant to let her wed, fearing the weight of Marthas rule. They lived but a mile apart, and Agnes often marveled at Marthas tireless handshow shed mend the roof, plough the fields, stack the hay alone. What sort of daughter-in-law could ever please her? And if one tried, Martha would laugh her to scorn.
But Mary would not be swayed. She knew her own mind and trusted time would soften Martha. “Shell dandle grandchildren soon enough,” Mary thought, “and well manage the farm as we please. Shes but one, and we are twowell gentle her.” As for giving up her sweetheart for Marthas sake? Never.
None knew war was creeping close, that sorrow, not joy, lay ahead. Six months after the wedding, the fighting began. For Mary, those months were a trial. Michael doted on her, shielding her from labor, and this only fueled Marthas ire. “A fine man he is,” she scoffed, “wont let her lift a pail, always clasping and kissing like a fool. Takes after his fathersoft as butter.”
Marthas mother had brought her to a widower whose wife had died of fever. Theyd lived in poverty, the thatch leaking, the cow dead, no horse to speak ofno one to help. In the widower, Marthas mother saw salvation from hunger and cold. “Better a widow than a spinster,” she reasoned. “The mans meek, drinks quiet-likehes got a cow, a horse, what more is needed?”
Worn thin by grief and child-rearing, Edward took Martha for a wife. He eyed her rough features, her tall frame, broad shoulders, and muttered, “Shell do, I suppose.”
For weeks, they barely spoke, neither finding words. Only the boy clung to Marthas skirts, begging to be held, smiling up at her. In time, she proved a capable mistress, but love for her husband never came. Nor did Edward show her tenderness. Her joy lay solely in the boys devotion, in his eager love for her.
Martha grew into motherhood, if not wifehood. Shed talk to Michael for hours, teaching him patience and toil, praising his obedience with fierce hugs and kisses. True, the strap had its placetwice shed not ask. A thrashing for mischief might frighten even her, but repentance followed, tears and forgiveness shared.
Michael grew kind, handsome, tender-hearted, adoring his mother. When Edward died, their grief was quiet. Martha drew him close and said, “I thank God for you, son. I never wished to be a stepmotheronly a mother.”
Her smile softened her harsh features, warmth lighting her eyes. Strong hands cradled his shoulders as she murmured, “Time flies, lad. Soon youll wed, bring home a strapping lass, build a new house. Youll spare your old mam a corner, wont you? Someone must keep order, though your wife will be clever enough.”
Michael listened, smiling, thinking, “Shes beautiful, my mother. Strong and good. Ill never fail her as Father did.”
Time did flythe wedding, then war at their heels, trampling all in its path. Martha, seeing Michael off, slumped as if broken, wailing into her apron. Mary, weeping silently, laid a hand on her shoulder. Martha lifted her head. “Dont comfort me,” she rasped. “Pray instead. Pray God keeps our thread unbroken. Michael is my life. Without him, Ive none left to live for.”
The waiting wore them thin. Martha saw no help in Marythe girl struggled with pails, carried mere scraps of firewood, kneaded dough with frail fists. Watching her lift a pot from the oven, Marthas heart near stopped. “A helpless thing,” she grumbled. “Ought to have stayed unwed. A millstone round my neck.”
Yet Mary knew no malice lurked in Marthas wordsonly fear, sharp as hungers teeth.
One morning, Martha noticed Mary nibbling pickles, green about the gills. She knew the signs.
Hunger prowled closer daily. Martha had hidden flour, sugar, salt in the loft, but war respected no preparations.
Mary grew weaker, could scarce hold a spoon. Martha pressed rye bread buttered and salted into her hands. “Eat,” she urged. “Bread and salt bring strength.” She brewed sweet tea, ordered, “Sit still if you cant work.”
Michael wrote often, his letters beginning, “Dearest Mother and Wife.” Martha melted at those words, kissing the page, pressing it to her heart. She bade Mary hide her pregnancy. “Im strong, yet lost my babes. Youre slightwhat if you miscarry? Wait till hes born to tell him.”
Mary ate little, yet her belly swelled. Dizziness plagued her; blue shadows ringed her eyes. She scarcely recalled wars peril, dreaming only of peace, of Michael returning to meet his son.
Martha, gaunt and stooped, wasted to bones. Mary watched her sip milk, nibble bread, then labor all day. At home, Martha prayed, eyeing Marys belly with dread.
The birth came at night, the wind howling like a banshee. The midwife lived miles off. Martha hitched the horse, bundled Mary in furs, and drove through the storm.
The birth was a battlefive hours of pain, life and death grappling. At last, a cry rang out. A sturdy boy lay on Marys breast, but she was ghost-pale, bloodless. The midwife gave no promises.
Marys mother offered to take her home. Martha, gray and shrunken, stood like a scolded child. Their eyes metgratitude in one, hope in the other. “Ill stay with Mother,” Mary whispered. “With the mother who saved us.”
Joy straightened Marthas spine. She tended the babe nightly, cut her husbands shirts for swaddling, used her burial linen for nappies. “They judge by deeds, not dress, in heaven,” she said. “No need to primp yet.”
Mary took no offense. Once, shed feared Marthas stride, her voice, her glower. Now she saw the gentleness in those rough hands, the kindness beneath the stern brow. Martha was her shield. Often, Mary thanked her earnestly, and Martha would wave her off, flustered. “Hush, girl. Youre no burdenyoure joy. And you, little John, suck hearty. Grow strong for your fathers arms.”
Still, no word came from Michael. The postmistress shook her head from afar. Mary grew sturdier, milk plentiful, her hands deft at last. Martha took heartno news was good news.
Then came victory, the village rejoicing. No death notice had comesurely Michael lived. Surely hed return.
John played near the cottage, Mary dug the garden, Martha ailed abed. “Wheres my strength gone?” she wondered. “If only I could see my boy, hand him the farm, then rest awhile. Ah, my girls a treasureknew it from the first.”
Men came home, but not Michael. Then one summer day, John stumbled into a soldiers knees. The man smiled down, lifted him, and asked, “Show me where you live, lad. Wheres your mother?”
Michaels heart hammered as he clutched his son. He near staggered to the cottage. Martha and Mary stood frozen, then burst into tears. “None doubted youd come home,” Mary murmured.
“In the scouts, I was,” he said. “Couldnt write. But our boy knew his father would return.”
Martha watched them, thinking happiness could be touched, held close. “Happiness,” she whispered, “is you, my son, and all you love.”
