**The Proposal**
“One of the most common mistakes is to think of people as good, evil, foolish, or wise. A person is like a riverever-changing, carrying all possibilities within. A fool may grow wise, a cruel heart may soften, and the reverse may also be true. That is the greatness of humanity. And for this reason, we must never judge too hastily. You condemn a man, and already he is no longer the same,” Leo Tolstoy once wrote in his journals.
To argue with such wisdom is difficult, at times nearly impossible. Life proves him right again and againif only one looks closely, sifts the wheat from the chaff, and holds the truth bare in ones hands.
But today, such thoughts feel too heavy, for the heat has clung to the air since dawn. A stifling, July heat, as if the very breath of the world had struck the sun-scorched walls of the houses, bounced back onto the blistering pavement, and surrendered, bowing beneath the skys molten glare.
Yet inside Emily, it is winter. A bitter, biting cold. So this summer passes without her.
School is behind her now. She ought to be thinking of university, like any proper graduate. But Emily is pregnant. What use is university now? And then theres Jamiethe betrayer. When she told him about the baby, he only bit his lip, turned to the window, and muttered:
“Well, I was first… but there couldve been a second…”
Emily hadnt even cried. She just stood there, staring at his backcalm, untroubled, his breath steady. She had wanted to say more, to ask what she was supposed to do now, but the doorbell rangher mother home from work. Jamie went to answer it, exchanged polite words in the hallway, and left.
Her mother strode straight into Emilys room. “Whats happened?” she demanded.
Emily, dazed, blurted it out: “Nothing. Im just pregnant.”
Her mother stared, eyes locking onto hers. Then came the shoutor rather, the sharp crack of a slap drowned out the words entirely.
And that was when the winter began inside Emily. Snow fell thick and fast, burying her whole, leaving only ice and hollow silence.
Her mother kept shouting, but the snow muffled it all. Emily sank onto the edge of her bed, tears welling inside, freezing before they could fall, turning to crystal beads that rattled in the emptiness.
Her mother stormed out, the front door slammedand then, stillness. Emily was alone, adrift in the sweltering July evening, curled into herself. Only then did she weepproperly, like a child, sniffling, hiccuping. And oh, how she grieved! Not for herself, nofor the tiny life inside her, already unwanted by father, grandmother, even her own foolish mother.
She fell asleep, though daylight still lingered. Dreams came, vague and shifting. She woke to the weight of someone sitting beside her, fingers brushing through her hair.
Her mother had returned. “Emily, love, forgive me,” she whispered. “Im a fool, though not yet old enough to excuse it. We should be celebratingmy girl, all grown, soon to be a mother herself. And I…”
Her voice broke, tears smeared across her cheeks. “I just keep thinkingplease, not a boy. Not a boy. Men, theyre all… well, you know. None of them ever really understand, or care enough. Not your father, not mine…”
Now Emily sobbed too, loud and messy. She clung to her mother, the dearest soul in the world, and they wept together, mourning their shared sorrows. And for the first time in hours, warmth seeped back in. After all, summer still burned outside.
Thenthe doorbell.
Her mother sniffed hard, wiped her face, and stopped Emily from rising. “Stay, love. Ill get it.” She smoothed her hair as she wenta tragedy was no excuse for looking disheveled, especially if a man stood on the other side.
She opened the door. And there they weretwo of them. Jamie, and before him, his father. The older man spoke first.
“Good evening, Mrs. Whitmore. Forgive the lateness. But my lad heres told me everything. No excuses left, it seems.” He turned to his son. “Or is there more, future granddad?”
Jamie hung his head. His father pressed on.
“So here we are, the pair of us, to ask for your daughters handif Emily can forgive the rubbish he spouted. Go on, you little wretch,” he cuffed Jamie lightly, “beg the girls pardon. And if she wont have you, youre no son of mine.”
…Yes. A man is fluid, ever-shifting. Sometimes we blunder, lost in our own foolishness, unsure how to set things right. Thank goodness for mothers and fathersthey never steer us wrong.
