**A Stepmothers Love**
Not long ago, the wedding bells had rung. Not long ago, family had gathered, singing, dancing, laughingno one could have guessed it would be their last reunion. Only the mother-in-law sat glowering, displeased with the slender, delicate bride. “Pretty enough, I suppose,” she muttered. “But what good is beauty if she cant lift a bundle of hay or haul a bucket of water? Ive worked like a horse all my lifethought my boy would marry a strong lass, not this wisp of a thing!” Margaret fumed silently, her bitterness not lost on Eleanor.
Thomas reassured his young wife but warned her his mother wouldnt go easy. “She doesnt care for small, frail womenstrength to her is in broad shoulders and quick hands. She could toss a drunken man into bed with one arm. When she hitched a horse, even the stable lads stepped back. Plowed fields straight-backed, turned the earth as if it were butter. Built a haystack in an hour while others took half a day just to make a sorry heap.”
God had given her a mans strength, it seemed, but robbed her of a womans tenderness. Eleanors own mother hadnt wanted her to marry into such a household. They lived nearby, and Helen had often marveled at Margarets brute forcehow shed replace rafters single-handed, thatch a roof, plow fields, stack hay. What kind of daughter-in-law could ever satisfy her?
But Eleanor wouldnt listen. “I wont lose the man I love just because of Margaret,” she thought.
No one knew war was comingnot joy, but separation. Six months after the wedding, it began. That time felt like a trial. Thomas doted on his wife, which only angered his mother. “What sort of man wont even let her carry a bucket? Always coddling, always kissingno spine, just like his useless father.”
Margarets mother had brought her to a widower whose wife died of fever. Theyd been poor, the thatch leaking, no horse, no help. Her mother saw salvation in the matchbetter a quiet drunk with a roof than spinsterhood. The man was grateful for any replacement. Taking one look at Margarets rough features, broad frame, hed grunted, “Aye, shell do.”
For weeks, neither spoke. Only the boy clung to Margarets skirts, smiling, begging to be held. In time, she became a fine housekeeperbut she never loved her husband. And he never showed her kindness. The only joy she found was in Thomas, her stepson. She taught him patience, discipline; when he obeyed, shed kiss his head fiercely. But there were straps, tootwo warnings, then the belt. Shed weep afterward, and theyd forgive each other.
Thomas grew kind, gentle, devoted. When his father died, they didnt mourn. Margaret sat him down. “I never wanted to be a stepmother. I tried to be a mother.” Her smile softened her harsh face, warmth lighting her eyes. Her strong hands gripped his shoulders as she whispered, “Time flies, lad. Youll marry, build a houseleave a corner for me, eh? Someones got to keep your wife in line!”
Thomas just smiled. “My strong, loving mumbetter than Father ever was.”
Then came the war. Margaret stood stiff as Thomas left, then collapsed, wailing into her apron. Eleanor, weeping too, tried to comfort her. “Dont waste breath on me,” Margaret rasped. “Pray he comes home. Hes my life. Without him, Ive nothing.”
The waiting was agony. Margaret saw no help in Eleanorhauling half-buckets of water, struggling with dough, fumbling at milking. “Useless girl,” shed mutter. But there was no malicejust fear.
One morning, Margaret noticed Eleanor nibbling pickles. She knew the signs. Hunger gnawed at them all, though Margaret had hidden flour, sugar, salt in the loft. The war cared nothing for her preparations.
Eleanor grew weaker, barely able to eat. Margaret tried everythingapples, bread with butter, salted tea. “Sit still if you cant work,” shed snap.
Thomas wrote often, always beginning, “Dearest Mother and Wife.” Margaret would kiss the paper, press it to her heart, then sob. She forbade Eleanor to mention the pregnancy. “Im strong, and I lost mine. Youre a slip of a thingwait till its born to tell him.”
The letters stopped. Margaret knelt nightly, praying, “Take my strength, my couragegive it to my boy. Forgive me for keeping the truth from him.”
The birth came on a stormy night. The midwife refused to stay. Margaret hitched the horse, carried Eleanor through the gale. “Save them,” she begged the midwife.
Five hours of agony. Life and death wrestleduntil a cry rang out. A healthy boy. Eleanor, drained, clung to him. Margaret, gray-haired now, stood like a scolded child. Their eyes metgratitude in one, hope in the other. “Ill live with my other mother,” Eleanor whispered.
Margaret bloomed again. She cut up her husbands shirts for the baby, used her own burial linen for swaddling. “They judge by deeds, not clothes,” she told Eleanor. “And Im in no hurry to go.”
No word came from Thomas. But no death notice either. “Thats enough,” Margaret said.
Victory arrived. Still no Thomas. Then, one summer day, little John stumbled into a soldiers legs. The man lifted him, heart pounding. “Show me where you live,” he murmured.
Margaret and Eleanor froze, then burst into tears. “We never doubted you,” Eleanor breathed.
Thomas grinned. “John knew Id come.”
Margaret watched her family and thought: Happiness isnt just felt. Its held.
