**A Stepmothers Heart of Gold**
Not long ago, the wedding bells had rung. Family had gathered, laughing, dancingno one couldve guessed itd be their last time together. Only the mother-in-law, Edith, sat scowling. Shed taken an instant dislike to her frail, delicate daughter-in-law, Lily. “Pretty enough, Ill grant her that,” Edith muttered, “but what goods beauty if she cant lift a bundle of hay or heft a bucket? Ive worked these fields my whole lifethought my lad would bring home a strong lass to take my place, not some wilting flower.”
Lilys husband, William, tried to soothe her but warned his mum wouldnt go easy. “Shes got no patience for weakness,” he said. Edith was a forcebroad-shouldered, hands like shovels. Shed once hauled her drunk father to bed single-handed, and when she hitched the plough, even the stable lads stepped back. She worked like a man, they said, as if God forgot to give her a womans tenderness.
Lilys own mother hadnt wanted her to marry into such a household. They lived just down the lane in their little Yorkshire village, and shed seen Ediths strength firsthandrethatched the roof alone, ploughed the back forty without breaking a sweat. “What sort of lassd ever keep up with her?” shed fretted. But Lily wouldnt listen. “Im not losing my William over his mums temper,” shed vowed.
No one knew war was coming. Six months after the wedding, the call-up papers arrived. Those first months had been trial enoughWilliam doted on Lily, which only irked Edith more. “Pathetic,” shed grumble. “Cant even let her fetch water without coddling her. Takes after his useless father.”
Ediths own marriage had been a grim bargain. Her mother, desperate, had wed her to a widowera meek, drink-sodden man with a cow and a horse to his name. Edith had been a girl then, all sharp angles and silence. Shed learned to run the farm, to mother his boy, but love? Never. Only little William had cracked her hard shell. Shed raised him stricta leather strap for disobedience, but also bedtime stories and kisses atop his head. When his father died, theyd barely mourned. “Youre all Ive got, lad,” shed told him. “Tried my best to be a proper mum, not just some stepmother.”
Then war took William, too. Edith stood stone-faced as the train pulled away, then crumpled, howling into her apron. Lily, weeping herself, tried to comfort her. “Dont fuss over me,” Edith snapped. “Pray instead. If I lose him, I lose everything.”
The waiting was agony. Letters came less often. Lily grew thin, her belly swelling despite the rationing. Edith watched her strugglespilling water, fumbling with firewoodand bit back sharper words. There was no malice, only fear. Then one morning, she caught Lily nibbling pickled cucumbers from the barrel.
Edith knew that craving.
Shed lost every babe shed carried, working herself to the bone. But Lily? Frail as a bird. Edith fed her salted bread, mulled cider, gruel. “Eat,” shed order. “If you wont work, at least dont waste away.”
When the labour came, it was a nightmare. A blizzard ragedtoo fierce to fetch the midwife. Edith harnessed the cart, bundled Lily in furs, and drove through the gale. Five hours of screaming, of blood, of death hoveringthen a wail. A boy. Strong.
Lily barely survived. Edith, grey-haired now, moved like a ghost. She cut up her late husbands shirts for nappies, gave up the linen shed saved for her own shroud. “Theyll judge me by deeds, not cloth,” she told Lily, whod begun to heal, to laugh, to milk the cow without spilling.
Victory came. No death notice ever had. Then one summer evening, little Henryplaying in the dustcrashed into a strangers legs. A soldier. William.
Edith watched her son hold his family and knew happiness wasnt just a feeling. It was something you could touch.
