Summer was always a troublesome season for me. I never minded the heat; it was the way Ethan almost never returned home when the days grew long that gnawed at me.
Ethan and I had been married for seven years, and for most of that time our life was quiet and uneventful. We had a son, Oliver, who was just a year old when I first began to feel the strain of his father’s absence. My own mother, retired after a lifetime of hard work and now disabled, offered to look after the little boy while I went back to the furniture shop where I had once been a sales assistant. They welcomed me back gladly; reliable and pleasant workers are a rare find in those days. It was there that I first met Ethan Brooks, the man who delivered the new sofas from the factory in Leeds.
When I mentioned Oliver to him, he did not blush or look away. He simply said, Then lets marry, and maybe another boy will follow, then a girl. I love children. His proposal was sudden, and I was not prepared for marriage, but his steady nature, his decent earnings from his own lorry, and the fact that my mother could not look after Oliver forever pushed me to accept. Three months later I became Mrs. Brooks.
The marriage turned out to be a comfort I had not expected. Ethan was diligent, never given to quarrels, and, most importantly, he did not let jealousy fester. I was a faithful wife and hoped he would remain so. Once, when I asked him if he ever thought of another woman, he laughed and replied that only if I grew fat and roamed the house in a tattered nightgown would he consider it. The thought of such a nightgown made me smile, for I had no intention of ever drifting into that state.
Seven years passed. Ethan bought a newer, larger lorry and began hauling freight all across Britain, earning well but rarely staying at home. I opened my own furniture shop and kept busy to fend off loneliness. Oliver flourished; at eight he was a kind, athletic lad who had already collected a handful of medals. He adored Ethan, even though he knew the man was not his biological father, and he tried his best to make his father proud.
Our hopes for another child never materialised. Five years earlier a doctor had told us that we were simply incompatible in that department. I took the news with a quiet resignationafter all, I already had a sonbut I felt a deep shame toward Ethan. I promised him a child, and he clung to that promise, his spirits sinking when he realised it would never come. After a period of despondency he recovered, grew more attentive to the shop and to Olivers progress, and I was grateful for his renewed warmth.
Ethans parents lived in a modest cottage in a small Yorkshire village about sixty miles from our town. He often stayed the night there, sometimes for several nights in a row. I sometimes chafed at his frequent visits, but I soothed myself with the thought that Martha and George, his parents, were already well into their sixties and needed help. Their house, though old, required occasional repairs, and I never argued with Ethan about it, recalling the two bleak years of his gloom. After all those years together, I loved him wholly and could not imagine parting from him.
One May evening a vague unease settled over me. Perhaps it was the lingering heat, or the fact that summer always stretched Ethans absences. I dialled his mobile, Ethan, love, where are you? At your parents? Your voice sounds strangehas something happened? The line clicked, and his tone was flat, unlike the gentle cadence I knew. I felt a sting of tears rise, for we had never spoken so curtly. I hurried the boy to his grandmothers cottage and set off for the village myself.
When I arrived, Ethans lorry was nowhere near the gate. I knocked on the weatherworn door. Martha opened it, surprised but kind, and ushered me inside. We sat at the kitchen table with tea, for George was already asleep. As I began to explain my worry, a small, sleepy girl stumbled out of the next room. She was about three, with bright blue eyes and a cascade of golden curls, and she clutched a cloth doll, whispering for her mother. Martha quickly gathered her, cradling her softly and humming a simple lullaby.
Where did this child come from? I asked, bewildered.
This is Lucys daughter, Martha replied hurriedly. Lucy, our niece, passed away a few days ago. She had no one else, so we took little Kate home.
I felt a pang of compassion. Do you intend to keep her? Shes still so tiny and where is her father?
Before Martha could answer, George rose from his chair, rubbing sleep from his eyes. He stared at me, then at the girl, and I kissed his cheek, apologising for disturbing his rest. Forgive us for waking you, I said, little Kate is so lovely, and I feel sorry for her mother. He gave a faint nod, his gaze lingering on the child.
I asked Martha if I might stay the night and watch the girl, and she, after a brief hesitation, consented. Throughout the night I kept watch, my hand gently stroking the childs soft hair, and I began to form words for Ethan and his parents.
At dawn, I awoke to the sight of Ethan standing by the foot of my bed, his eyes fixed on Kate and on me with a mixture of fear and resolve. Ethan, I whispered, shall we keep her? I can raise her as my own.
He turned away abruptly and slipped out of the room. I chased him through the garden and found him seated on a bench beneath an ancient oak, tears glistening on his cheeks.
I’m sorry, he murmured, his voice breaking.
For what? I asked, bewildered. You dont want to take her?
He sighed, She looks like me, because she is mine Lucy became pregnant and insisted I would be the father. I told her I would support the child but never leave you. I never loved her, but when she died she left this baby with a legal document handing her over to me. I was terrified to admit itmy parents would have judged me, and I didnt know what to do.
His confession left me speechless. I rose, entered the bedroom, and sat beside the sleeping Kate. I searched her cherubic face for any trace of another man, but all I found was Ethans resemblance, a bond I could not deny. Quiet tears rolled down my cheeks, and I pressed my palm to my eyes, letting the grief flow. Then, feeling a gentle tug, I lifted my hand. The little girl looked up with those huge blue eyes and smiled.
Dont be sad, she whispered in a childs voice, Ill tie you a braid.
Her innocent offer melted the ice in my heart. I promised to braid her hair, however clumsy I might be, and she giggled, delighted.
Soon the court granted us guardianship of Kate. Oliver, now ten, declared proudly that he would protect his little sister, for he was now a big brother. Ethan gave up the long hauls, and together we expanded our business, opening a second shop in the nearby market town.
The memory of Ethans brief infidelity never vanished, but I forgave him, seeing the genuine remorse in his eyes.
On a cold December morning, Kate burst into our home after a school nativity, clutching a massive box of sweets gifted by Father Christmas. She ran to Ethan, wrapped her arms around his neck, and whispered, Daddy, can I ask Santa for a brother or a sister?
Ethan looked startled. Love, he cant grant that wish. Ask for something else.
Why not? I smiled, Can we ever deny such a sweet girl?
Ethan fell silent, staring at me, while I laughed and nodded. When Oliver returned from his training, he found Ethan twirling Kate around the living room, both laughing, chocolate smudges on Kates cheek, while Oliver took a candy from her hand and said, Weve got the best parents, dont we, sis?
I look back on those years now, the tangled threads of love, loss, and unexpected joy, and I thank the fickle hand of fate for bringing Kate into our lives, for teaching us that family is not only blood but the ties we choose to nurture.
