Mother loved everyone.
Margaret never loved her sons. To her they were dimwitted, narrowminded, rough and unculturedjust like their father.
Ma, whats there to eat? shouted George, the eldest, his voice already dropping into a low growl. A thin patch of hair was sprouting on his chin, his hands were long and gaunt, wrists like twine, fingers thick and calloused, ready to crush.
Margaret knew all too well that George was already prowling the streets, looking for the lonely widows who had lost the warmth of a husband. They stared at younger men with hungry eyes, and at teenagers with a brazen boldness.
She once warned a woman named Daphne, You shouldnt go after Georgehes barely fifteen, still a boy. Daphne laughed, a wicked, unhinged laugh that made Margarets stomach churn.
From that moment Margarets love for George vanished. He reminded her of his fathercoarse, always drunk, reeking of bacon, garlic and homemade gin, his filthy hands reaching wherever they pleased.
She tried to pair him off with every older woman in the hamlet. When MaggieMargarets youngest daughterwas forced into marriage, she wept, but no one would stand up for her. The old crone of the village, with her cracked spectacles, nudged Maggie along.
Why are you lingering, child? Look at Peter, how tall he stands. All the girls swoon over him; they just need him to glance their way. Yougo on.
Maggie sobbed, I dont want this. Ill go to the town, find work in the mill, learn, make a life of my own.
The crone snapped, You think you can escape to the town? You should have stayed beneath his shadow She struck Maggie hard, her words a relentless hammer, accusing her of sin, predicting a future where her belly would be swollen and her life ruined. Maggie understood the warningsomething was breaking inside her.
She had to leave for Peter. He was older, brought her into his house, first his mother raged, calling her the wrong bride, then she softened, pitying Maggie especially when he tormented her at night. The mother muttered that the girl was weak, a burden.
One by one, children burst into the world like peas from a podboys, all of them. Maggie loved them fiercely, until they grew, until they turned into men like Peter. Then she became a harsh mother.
War ripped Peter apart, left him a husk, and many men never returned. Three of Margarets sons went to the front; only a handful came back, eyes black as night, skin darkened by mud and blood.
Margaret gave birth to three more boys; not a single daughter. There was no escape from the curseno darkness could shield a home once night fell, for a hand would reach out, pinch, grab a waist, crush.
Maggie always delayed the nights arrival, inventing chores, tasks, anything to stall. When Peter announced he was leaving for Lucy Barrett, a widowed soldiers wife, Maggie exhaled a breath of relief.
George fought his father then; Margaret tended the wound, bandaged his arm, stroked his head like she had done when he was a child. Let him go, son let him be, she whispered.
Mother, dont be afraid. Well hold on, George said, his words stumbling. He was about to marry, and Margaret tried not to think of the frail, bigeyed girl he would take, just as Peter had.
All of them turned out the same, identical, as if molded from the same stone. Margaret shook her head, remembering each infant, hoping nature might err and give her a daughter. It never did.
Her last son, Sam, grew up in a string of suitors, each promising a different future, each disappearing like a mirage. He finally found a girlLilyso beautiful she seemed to float. Margaret watched as Sam left his bedroom, Lily never hiding, never shrinking, as if she could slip through the earth itself, clinging to him like a calf to its mother.
She pressed her cheek to Sams chest, froze. He brushed her hair, placed a gentle kiss on her forehead, as tender as a mothers.
Margaret began to spy on her other sons, watching whether they mirrored Peters cruelty, whether they grabbed their wives, dragged them to the bed at any convenient moment.
She found none.
No, Lord, no! she cried, as if she were blind to the horror, as if she had never seen the other boys monstrosities.
It took her a lifetime to realize: she had been wrong about her children, that they were not monsters but the product of a bitter world.
One evening she visited George, the eldest. All right, dear? she asked.
Its fine, Mother. Anything happen? Any trouble with the new bride? Theres room if you need it George answered slowly, his speech always measured, his tongue tight from birth.
Mother, dont hold back, speak your mind, said Katie, Georges wife, stepping forward.
No, my children, all is well. I just came to share a thought, Im missing everyone, Margaret replied, her voice cracking. George, forgive your mother if Ive been harsh.
Its not I wasnt a good mother, she muttered to herself, tears spilling.
Is that so? You werent good? Katie asked, eyes narrowing.
Yes mothers like us, were cursed we raise boys, not girls, Margaret whispered, her mind a tangled knot.
She walked through the house, her legs trembling, each step a plea for forgiveness. She thought of Lily, who had barely given birth to a granddaughter. Lily, could you have a child for me? she asked, hopeful.
Ill try, Mother, Lily giggled, then gave birth to twin girls, Olivia and Julia, the grandmothers beloved cherubs, the love she had never known could flourish.
Margarets eyes widened, fierce with joy. She swore she would raise the girls, teach them, protect them, never let them fall into the same darkness that had consumed her sons. She kept that promise. The grandchildren grew, achieved greatness, always recalling their grandmothers kind words, loving Margaret with all their hearts.
She truly loved them all.
Did she not love her sons? Of course she did; a mother cannot hate the children she bore. She loved them fiercely, even when they were flawed. She forgave Peter long ago, even learned to love him a little.
Thus the tale ends, a mothers heart battered yet unbroken, learning that love can be both a wound and a salvation.
