**A Stepmothers Heart of Gold**
The wedding bells had barely faded when the family last gatheredlaughing, singing, dancingnever imagining it would be their final reunion. Only the bridegrooms mother sat scowling in the corner. She had taken an instant dislike to the delicate, petite bride. *Pretty enough, I supposeif you fancy a wisp of a thing. But what good is beauty if she cant lift a bundle of firewood or heft a pail of water? Ive worked like a ploughhorse my whole life, and this is the slip of a girl my son brings home?* Margaret brooded, her resentment simmering, her bitterness plain to seethough not lost on her new daughter-in-law, Emily.
William soothed his young wife but warned her plainly: his mother would show no mercy. Margaret despised frailty; her world was built on strengthbroad shoulders, calloused hands, a stride that outpaced men. Shed once dragged her drunken husband to bed single-handed. When she harnessed a horse, even the stablemen stepped back. Behind a plough, her spine stayed ramrod straight, her grip iron, the earth turning in gleaming furrows beneath her command. At haymaking, she could stack a rick in an hour while others fumbled all day.
God had given her a mans strength but robbed her of a womans tenderness. Emilys own mother had hesitated to let her marry. They lived just down the lane, and Sarah had seen Margarets inhuman labourre-thatching roofs, swapping rafters, driving cattle. *What kind of girl could ever please her?* But Emily refused to listen. She imagined Margaret softening with age, dandling grandchildren while she and William built their own life. *I wont lose the man I love over his mothers temper.*
No one guessed war loomed on the horizon, poised to steal their happiness. Six months after the wedding, it came. Those months felt like a trial to Emily. William doted on her, shielding her from chores, kissing her broweach gesture stoking Margarets fury. *Look at hima man who wont let his wife lift a bucket! No spine, like his drunken father.*
Margarets own marriage had been one of necessity. Her mother, destitute after her husbands death, had pushed her into the arms of a widower with a farm and a motherless boy. *Better a timid drunk than starvation.* For weeks, neither spoke. Only the child, clinging to her skirts, brought warmth. Over time, she became a formidable mistress of the housebut love never came. Her joy lay solely in raising her stepson, teaching him with rough hands and rare, fierce affection. There were beatings, toothe strap for mischiefbut always followed by tears and whispered apologies.
William grew kind, handsome, devoted. When his father died, neither mourned deeply. Margaret once cupped his face and said, *”I never wanted to be a stepmother. I tried to be a mother.”* For a moment, her harsh features softened, her eyes warm as summer. *”Youll marry strong, wont you? A girl who can work. Build us a new house. Save me a cornersomeones got to keep order.”* William smiled, thinking, *My brave, beautiful mother. Ill never fail you like he did.*
Time hurried on. The wedding passed; war followed, trampling everything in its path. When William left for the front, Margaret collapsed, wailing into her apron. Emily, tear-streaked, laid a hand on her shoulder. Margaret rasped, *”Dont comfort me. Pray. If he dies, I die. Hes my whole life.”*
The waiting was agony. Emily was hopelessspilling water, struggling with firewood, her dough a weeping mess. Margaret scoffed, *”Useless girl. Shouldve stayed unwed.”* But there was no malice in her scolding, only fear. Then one morning, she noticed Emily nibbling pickled cucumbersa telltale sign.
Hunger crept closer. Margaret had hidden flour, sugar, salt in the attic, but war respected no preparations. Emily grew weaker, vomiting even water. Margaret pressed salted bread into her hands, muttering, *”Eat. If you wont work, at least sit still.”*
Williams letters came often,开头总是 *”Dearest Mother and my Emily.”* Margaret kissed the paper, weeping. She forbade Emily to mention the pregnancy. *”Im strong, and I lost mine. Youre a frail thing. Wait till hes born.”*
The birth was a battle. A storm raged as Margaret hitched the horse, carrying Emily to the midwife. Five hours of screaming, blood, near-deathuntil a cry pierced the night. A healthy boy. Emily, ghost-pale, met Margarets eyes. *”Ill stay with you. Where hell return.”*
Margaret became a woman rebornsewing baby clothes from her own shroud fabric, rising at every whimper. *”No use dressing fine for the grave,”* she joked. Emily, once afraid of her, now saw the tenderness in her rough hands.
No letters came. But no death notice either. Thenvictory. Soldiers trickled home. One summer day, a stranger lifted little Henry from the dust. William had returned.
Margaret watched her family embrace and thought, *Happiness isnt just a feeling. Its you, my son. And this.*
