THE CALL OF KINDRED BLOOD
“Emma, as your husband, I must set one condition,” I said, my voice trembling. “Let us forget this foolish affair with your eager young lover. But grant me one thinggive me a son.” I had never felt so wretched.
“Very well, Edward, I shall try,” my wife replied hesitantly. The weight of our agreement pressed heavily upon her.
…Emma and Emily had raised three daughters together: twelve-year-old Charlotte, nine-year-old Eleanor, and eight-year-old Beatrice. How this upstart, twenty-year-old Oliver, had entered our lives, I could not fathom. He shattered everything I held dear. As the saying goes, it is not years that age a man, but sorrow.
Our girls were bewildered. Their mother, once so tender and devoted, had become distant, too polished, like a ghost in her own home. Dust gathered in thick layers on every surface, dishes stood unwashed in the kitchen, and I grew short-tempered, lost in despair. How could I bring my wayward wife back to us?
…It had all begun six months prior, aboard a steamship during a holiday by the sea. Emma returned absentminded, her gaze drifting past me, no longer embracing the girls as she once had. A gnawing suspicion took rootsomething was amiss. Yet I held my tongue, fearing the truth would wound me more than ignorance. Time, however, revealed all.
“Papa, Mama spent the whole holiday walking arm in arm with Oliver,” little Eleanor blurted out one day.
“Tell me more, my dear,” I said, forcing composure as my heart turned to ice.
“Well, this gentleman was always with us. Mama laughed at his jokes. He even saw us off at the station. Handsome, fashionable. Younger than you.” Each word struck like a dagger.
Impossible! A fleeting summer romance, nothing more. What could a dandy like Oliver want with a woman of thirty and three children? The seaside was teeming with young girls ripe for adventure. Surely he would tire of her.
But I was wrong.
Their love endured, defying reason. No petitions, no tears, no pleas to conscience could save our marriage. The peace of my soul was lost forever.
Emma bore me a sonWilliamthough he never knew me as his father. I saw him but a handful of times. Oliver raised him. Emma took the boy and left us for good. I remained with my daughters, my heart encased in ice.
“Papa, if Mama has left us, we shall cook, clean, and mend your shirts,” little Beatrice said, dabbing my tears with her handkerchief. It was the only time I let my grief overflow.
In time, I rallied. Three young ladies depended on me. I taught them the duties of a householdsometimes sternly, sometimes clumsilybut order returned. Charlotte adored washing dishes, Eleanor swept the floors, and Beatrice chased away the dust. I managed the meals, poorly but passably.
Emma visited occasionally, leaving only sorrow in her wake. The girls wept for days after each visit. At last, I begged her to stay awayfor their sake.
“Edward, I love my daughters. Would you have me abandon them for your comfort?” she protested.
“No, Emmafor theirs. If you love them, let them heal. When theyre older, they may choose whether to see you.” My words seemed to reach her.
“Perhaps youre right. I weep after every visit. Time will decide. Goodbye, Edward.” With a final kiss to the girls, she left our home for good.
…As they grew, my daughters despised their mother and William with a fury I could not quell. I suspect they envied himthe son who had all of Emmas love.
…Yet when they marriedCharlotte and Eleanor each with four children, Beatrice with threetheir bitterness softened. The rage faded, though the sting of betrayal lingered. They vowed to be the mothers they had lost.
I live alone now. There have been other women, but I called them all “Emma”a habit that drove them away. My heart remembered only one. The past cannot be undone, nor forgotten. So I remain a bachelor, accustomed to solitude.
…Emma lived to sixty before passing. A week before her death, she came to me unexpectedly, weeping, begging forgiveness. She spoke bitterly of William, who had undergone surgeries to become a womanValentina. “I cannot fathom it,” she said. “He claims hes never been happier.”
Her will sent Oliver to the hospital in shock. A prosperous businessman, he had entrusted everything to Emmahis fortune, his properties. Yet in her will, she left him nothing. All went to our daughters and William. Perhaps kindred blood ran truer than love.
The girls offered their inheritance to me. “Take it, Papa. You deserve it.”
I refused. That wealth was not mine to claim. I passed it to the grandchildren.
Oliver declared bankruptcy, pleading with my daughters for aid. They turned him away. “You stole our mother, our childhood. Now go in peace.”
Valentina married an Italian, Roberto, and now lives abroad. They plan to adopt. Beatrice corresponds with her; Charlotte and Eleanor refuse to acknowledge her.
This tale unfolded in England, where I had brought my family in search of a better life. Fate, it seems, had other plans.
