Mother loved everyone, yet Teresa could never warm to her own boys. She saw them as dull, cramped, rude, and uncouthjust like their father.
Mother, whats for supper? shouted young Graham, the eldest, his voice already deep, a soft fuzz sprouting under his chin. His hands, like his father’s, were long and thin at the wrists, ending in thick, clumsy fingers that curled into a single, sturdy fist.
Teresa knew exactly that Graham was already prowling among the villages lonely widows, those women whose husbands had vanished and who stared with brazen invitation at any passing lad, even at boys barely fifteen. She warned one of them, a stout woman named Daphne, Dont let that child, that fool, get near Grahamhes barely a child himself. Daphne laughed wildly, her giggle twisting the air until Teresa felt a sourness rise in her chest.
From that moment Teresa stopped loving Graham; he reminded her of his fathercoarse, perpetually drunk, reeking of lard, garlic, and cheap gin, his filthy hands slipping wherever they could. She watched him tumble from one old maid to another across the hamlet, each encounter as forced as a stormdriven ship. When an elderly spinster tried to push him into marriage, she wept, but no one stepped in; the old woman, wrinkled and weary, simply said, What are you, girl, doing here? Look at Harry, how splendid he isevery maids breath catches when he glances their way. You, you should just go.
I wont, sobbed the young Teresa, Ill go to the city, find work in the mill, learn, and make a life of my own.
Youll never leave, croaked the old spinster, her voice cracking like dry twigs. You should have stayed beneath his shadow. She struck her hard, as if trying to imprint a memory of pain. Did Teresa truly think she had consented to Harry? She hadnt. The old woman kept beating her with words, hurling accusations of sin, declaring that soon her belly would swell higher than her nosean omen, she claimed, that something terrible was brewing.
Terrified, Teresa fled to Harrys house. He was older, his home a cramped cottage where his mother first complained about the wrong daughter-inlaw, then, resigned, pitied Teresa, especially when he tormented her at night. He muttered that she was weak, that she should be swept away. One by one, children fell like peas from a podevery one a boy.
Teresa loved them fiercely, until they grew into copies of Harry, and then she became a harsh mother. The war that swallowed Harry left him broken, spitting him out alive, while many men never returned. Yet Harry seemed to flourish. Three of his sons marched off to the front; when they came back, five darkhaired lads roamed the village, eyes like blackcurrants.
Teresa gave birth to three more boys; no daughter ever appeared. She could not escape his presenceif night fell and she lay at home, a cold hand would brush her cheek, a grip would seize her waist, a pressure would press her chest.
She always delayed his entry into her bedroom, inventing endless chores. When Harry announced he was leaving for Lillian Browning, a widowed soldiers wife, Teresa exhaled a sigh of relief. Graham fought his father then; Teresa bandaged Grahams arm, stroked his head as she once had done when he was a babe, and whispered, Go on, my son go.
Mother, do not fear, we will not abandon you, Graham managed to say, his voice trembling as he prepared for marriage. Teresa tried not to imagine what he would do with that frail, bigeyed girl, just as Harry had done.
All of them turned out the sameidentical, as if painted by the same brush. How could nature have erred? Teresa muttered, watching her little ones, each one hopeful, each one a promise that perhaps one would be different. She imagined a voice deepening, a fuzz on the chin, a sparkle in the eyeshe realized then why she never loved her sons as they grew: she saw herself as a failed mother.
The boys wives bore children, but never a girl. At last, the youngest, Sam, finally produced a daughter. He lingered among potential suitors, hoping perhaps another Sam would appear, but none did. The child, Lily, was a marvellightfooted, darting through the kitchen like a vine, her laughter ringing like church bells.
Whats this? Teresa whispered, watching Lily cling to Sams chest, refusing to shrink away, as if she were a calf seeking its mother. She pressed her cheek to his hair, kissed his forehead gently, a tender moment like a mothers kiss to a newborn.
From then on Teresa kept a watchful eye on all her sons, wondering if any behaved like Harrygrabbing, pulling, dragging their wives onto the bed at the slightest chance. None did. No, God above, none! she cried, as if blinded by a sudden sight she had never seen before. Years passed before the truth sank in: her sons were indeed hers, and perhaps she was not so terrible after all.
One morning Graham, now a grown man, entered the kitchen. Mother, all is well? he asked.
Yes, dear, all is fine. Anything wrong? Is the new daughterinlaw causing trouble? Theres room for her, Teresa replied, her words stumbling over the years of reticence.
His wife, Kate, a sturdy woman from the neighboring town, smiled. Dont worry, Mother, well manage, she said, pouring tea for everyone.
Teresa, exhausted, dragged herself home, her feet dragging like old furniture. She worried about offending any of the daughtersinlaw, fearing to hurt any girls feelings. Ive already had six children, why cant I have a daughter? she muttered to herself. Perhaps she wasnt as bad as she thought.
Lily baked crumpets, the kitchen smelling of butter and sweet syrup. Teresas eyes roved across the room, pleading not to refuse the little one. The crumpets were, indeed, delicious.
Lily, could you perhaps give me a grandchild? she asked, hopeful.
Ill try, Mother, Lily giggled, and later, she delivered two girlsOlive and Junegranddaughters adored by the whole village, their laughter a river of unspent love that filled Teresas heart.
Now, even the grandchildren, though bearing a striking resemblance to Harrys stubbornness, were treasured like tiny princesses, ruling the affection of their grandmother. Teresa swore she would raise them, teach them, and keep them safe from the worlds cruelties. She kept that promise; the girls grew up, achieved great things, always recalling their grandmothers kind words, and loved Teresa in return.
So, did Teresa truly not love her sons? Of course she did; otherwise they would not have become what they are. A mother cannot not love the child she carries beneath her heart. And Harry? He was forgiven long ago, even loved a little, for in the evershifting dream of the village, love and forgiveness were the only things that ever truly remained.
