Summer was approaching, and Blythe never liked that time of year. It wasnt the heat that bothered her; it was that James seemed to disappear altogether once July arrived.
Blythe and James had been married for seven years. Their life was steady, quarrels rare. She was grateful that James had taken her in when she was pregnant with their little boy, Oliver, who was then barely a year old. Olivers biological father, Andrew, had vanished the moment he learned about the pregnancy, ignoring calls and refusing to answer the door. Blythe once went to his work, just to look him in the eye, and he trembled so badly that she laughed, Dont worry, Andy, Im not after your child it isnt yours.
Andrews relief was palpable, and he shouted, I knew it! I wont be a stepdad! The coworkers stared, then turned away, leaving him to gasp for air. Blythe left, vowing never to see that oncebeloved man again.
When Oliver was six months old, Blythe asked her retired mother to look after him while she returned to work. She had been a sales assistant in a furniture shop before her maternity leave, and the owner welcomed her back with open armshard to find a reliable, pleasant worker these days. It was there she met James Wood, who delivered the stock from the factory.
The moment she mentioned Oliver, James didnt flinch. He smiled and said, Lets get married. Have another boy, then a girl. I love kids. Blythe was taken aback; she hadnt expected such a swift proposal and wasnt even ready for marriage. Yet James was goodlooking, responsible, and earned well driving his own lorry, so she agreed. With her motherinlaws health failing, Blythe knew she couldnt raise Oliver alone. Within three months she became Mrs. Wood.
Surprisingly, married life suited her. James was diligent, never quarrelsome, and, most importantly, not jealous. Blythe gave him no reason to be, staying faithful herself. When she once asked if he ever strayed, he chuckled, Only if you start waddling around the house in a threadbare nightgown. She promised herself shed never let that happen.
Seven years slipped by. James bought a newer lorry and now crisscrossed the country, rarely at home. Blythe opened her own furniture store and kept busy to dodge loneliness. Oliver, now eight, was a tall, kind boy who loved sport and already owned a handful of medals. He adored James, even though he knew the man wasnt his biological father, and he strove to make him proud.
The couple never managed to have another child. Five years earlier doctors had told them they were simply incompatible. Blythe took the news with a measured sighshe already had Oliverbut she felt a deep guilt toward James, who had always hoped for a baby of his own. When the truth sank in, James fell into a brief slump, then revived, becoming more attentive than ever to the shop and Olivers achievements. Blythe welcomed his renewed enthusiasm.
Jamess parents lived a hundred miles away in a small village in Kent. He often spent nights there, which sometimes irked Blythe, who whispered that the old folk, Nina and Arthur, were well past their sixties. Their cottage was ancient and needed help, but Blythe never complained; she dreaded reviving the melancholy that had once haunted James for two years. After so many shared years, she loved him with all her heart and could not imagine parting.
One May evening, an inexplicable anxiety gripped Blythe. Perhaps it was the endless summer absences, perhaps something deeper. She dialed Jamess mobile, voice trembling, James? Where are you? At your parents? Why does your voice sound so off? Did I say something wrong? Sorry if I did. Bye.
She stared at the dead screen, tears threatening. James had never spoken to her so harshly. Overwhelmed, she drove Oliver to his grandmothers, then set off in her own car toward the village where Jamess parents lived.
She arrived late; Jamess lorry was nowhere in the drive. Disappointed, she knocked. Ethel, the matriarch, opened the door, shy yet hospitable, ushering Blythe inside for tea. Arthur slept upstairs, so they kept their voices low. Blythe began to explain her unease when a small, sleepy threeyearold girl shuffled out of a bedroom, rubbing her eyes, calling for Mum. Ethel scooped her up, cooing a lullaby.
Blythe stared, astonished. Where did this child come from? she asked once the baby was settled.
This is our relative Lucys daughter, Ethel hurriedly replied, Lucy died a few days ago. She had no one else, so weve taken little Molly in.
Will you keep her? Blythe asked, her voice soft. It must be hard, shes still so tiny. And wheres her father?
Before Ethel could answer, Arthur emerged, eyes bleary from being woken. He stared at Blythe, then turned away. She leaned in, pressed a kiss to his cheek, Sorry to wake you, little Molly was crying. What a sweetheart she is. Youve done well looking after her, but youre not exactly young now.
Arthur gave a vague nod, and Ethel, after a breathless explanation, agreed to let Blythe stay the night. Blythe curled up beside the sleeping child, her hand gently stroking the fine hair, already rehearsing what she would say to James and his parents in the morning.
At dawn, a sudden weight on her chest made her eyes snap open. James stood at the foot of the bed, eyes fixed on the sleeping Molly and on Blythe, his expression tight with fear.
James, she whispered, pleading, Can we take her home? I can raise her, I promise.
He turned away sharply, fled the room. Blythe scrambled to her feet, chased him outside, finding him on a bench beneath an ancient oak, tears streaming down his weathered face.
Sorry, he sobbed, voice raw, Im sorry.
What for? Blythe asked, bewildered. You wont take her? I understand you wanted a child of your own, but fate dealt us this hand. She looks like you, shell be ours.
James clamped his fists, muttering, She looks like me because shes my daughter. He then launched into a confession: Lucy had lived with an elderly aunt in a neighbouring hamlet. Hed attended her birthday, unaware that she was pregnant. She later declared she would keep the baby, and James, trying to be helpful, said hed support her but would never leave Blythe. He never loved Lucy. When Lucy later died, she had already signed papers handing the child over to him, hoping hed adopt. James, terrified of his parents disapproval, had hidden the truth.
Blythe sat, stunned, silent. She rose, entered the cottage, and sat beside the sleeping Molly. The babys cherubic face reflected Jamess, and a flood of grief rose in Blythes throat. She pressed her palms to her eyes, letting tears fall, not wiping them away. Then, as if by magic, the tiny hand reached for hers, eyes wide and blue.
Dont be sad, the child cooed, Ill braid your hair.
A reluctant smile broke through Blythes tears. She imagined the girl in a state orphanage, crying, ignored. She wiped her own cheeks and whispered, Alright, Ill braid you later. I dont know how yet, but Ill learn.
Soon the court approved the adoption. Oliver, thrilled, declared hed protect his new little sister as the big brother he always wanted to be. James gave up long hauls; the couple ran their two shops together, expanding the business.
Blythe never forgot Jamess brief betrayal, but she forgave him, seeing the genuine remorse in his eyes.
On a frosty New Years morning, Blythe and Molly returned home after a school concert. Molly, clutching a massive box of sweets from Father Christmas, ran to her father, hugging him tightly, and whispered, Daddy, I asked Santa for another brother or sister.
James, startled, answered, Sweetheart, Santa cant grant that.
Why not? Blythe teased, a mischievous grin on her lips, Can we refuse a lovely girl’s wish?
James stared, spellbound, while Oliver burst into the living room, laughing, twirling Blythe in his arms as Molly, chocolatesmudged, flopped onto the sofa. Oliver plopped a candy into Mollys hand and said, Weve got the best parents, dont we, sis?
