It was many years ago, when my boy and I were at our usual game on a rainy afternoon in the old garden of our cottage near York. A sudden knock on the front door broke the calm. I opened it and there stood a figure I had not thought of for some time my former wife.
Ethel and I had been married for seven years then, and our son Harry was six. Life was decent; we cherished Harry and often spoke of another child, hoping for a daughter to fill the house.
As the years wore on, a chill settled between Ethel and me. I sensed a change, and eventually we found ourselves sleeping in separate beds. She blamed it on fatigue and a lack of spirit, but the distance grew.
Friends eventually gave me a wakeup call. Albert told me he had seen Ethel being ushered into a motorcar by a gentleman who treated her with a gentlemans courtesy, opening the door for her with a smile. I refused to believe it, clinging to the hope that our love could survive, especially for Harrys sake. I could not put off the conversation any longer, so that evening I asked Ethel outright if she had been unfaithful. She could not answer, packed her belongings and left, leaving Harry with me.
I was, of course, relieved to have my son still by my side, yet I was baffled by the mothers cold indifference. Was she truly such a poor mother? Did she not love her child?
The early days were hard. There were countless moments with Harry when I was at a loss. I turned to family, friends, and the countless articles I read online for guidance. At first Harry mourned his mother, but after a while his yearning faded.
Four years later our fortunes had turned. I spared no penny on Harrys needs, and we began to travel more, seeing the countryside from the Lake District to Cornwall.
One day, as usual, Harry and I were engrossed in our game when another knock came at the door. I opened it to find Ethel, looking just as she had four years before, if not a little fresher. Harry paid her no heed. She stood there, unsure, until a sudden rush of maternal instinct took her. She darted to Harry, wrapped him in an embrace, kissed him, apologized, and spoke of a love that still burned, but the boy turned his back on her.
I decided to invite everyone for tea, hoping to ease the tension. The first ten minutes were marked by an awkward silence, but then the conversation began to flow.
It soon emerged that Ethel wanted to take Harry with her. I gave the lad a chance to decide. I saw the fear and uncertainty in his eyes and suggested he might spend a few days with his mother and see how it felt.
Throughout it all, thoughts of solitude haunted me. If Harry liked the idea of staying with his mother, would I be left alone?
The next morning Harry returned. He told me his mother was not alone, and that he wanted to stay with me. He would keep in touch with Ethel, but he was not ready to move in with her.
Thus, the years have taught me that the bonds we forge, though tested, can endure, and that a father’s love for his child can steady the heart through the stormiest of times.
