The summer was drawing near, and I have never liked that season, not because of the heat but because, once the sun rose high, James was almost never home.
James and I had been married seven years, and, for the most part, we lived quietly, rarely quarrelling. I was grateful to him for having taken me on with a tiny child in tow. Oliver was barely a year old then. His father, Arthur, had vanished the moment he learned my sister was pregnant, ignoring my calls, refusing to open his door. I went to his workplace one day, simply to look him in the eye, and the wouldbe father, seeing me, trembled so badly that I could not help but laugh.
Dont worry, Arthur, I need nothing from you this isnt your child, I said.
I knew, I knew! Arthur shouted, relief flooding his voice, and he turned triumphantly to his colleagues, who had been watching our exchange with mild curiosity. You cant hang a strangers child on me!
It isnt yours, its mine, I replied calmly. People like you never have true children; to you, every child is foreign.
Arthur could only gasp for breath, unsure how to answer, while the onlookers turned away, disdain evident in their faces. I left, determined never to see that man again, the man I had once thought I loved.
When Oliver was six months old, I asked my mother, who was retired due to ill health, to look after him while I returned to work. I had been employed in a furniture shop before my maternity leave, and they welcomed me back with pleasure. Reliable, pleasant staff are a rare find. It was there that I first met James Davies, who delivered furniture from the factory to our shop.
I told James about my son straightaway; he showed no surprise, only a serious smile.
Then well marry, and youll have another boy perhaps a girl after that. I love children, he said.
The proposal caught me off guard. I hadnt even thought about remarrying, yet James was handsome, steady, and earned well driving his own lorry. With a sickly mother and a baby to look after, I felt the offer could not be declined. Within three months I was Mrs. Davies.
Surprisingly, marriage suited me. James was diligent, never quarrelsome, and, most importantly, not jealous. I gave him no cause for envy; I was a faithful wife and hoped he would keep his eyes on me alone. Once, when I asked him if he ever strayed, he chuckled and said that only if I grew fat and shuffled about in a tattered nightgown would he even think of it. I promised myself I would never be seen in such a state.
Thus the years passed.
James bought a newer lorry and began hauling goods across the country, earning well but seldom home. I opened my own furniture store and kept myself busy to avoid idleness. Oliver grew into a kind, athletic boy, earning a few medals in local sports, and he adored James, even though he knew the man was not his biological father. He always tried to make James proud.
I never bore another child. Five years earlier we had both undergone tests, and the doctors said it was simply a matter of incompatibility. I took the news with a quiet resignation I already had a son yet I felt a deep shame toward James, having promised him a child. He had hoped, waited, then, when the prospect of a joint child vanished, fell into a slump. A couple of years later his spirits revived; he became more attentive, inquiring about the shop, about Olivers progress, and I welcomed his involvement. I was glad he had accepted our childless fate and returned to his former self.
Jamess parents lived a hundred miles away in a small village near Leeds. He often spent nights there, sometimes more than one night in a row. I nagged him a little, complaining that he seemed to stay with his parents more than with me, yet I soothed myself with the thought that Mrs. Davies and Mr. Davies were already in their sixties, living in an aging cottage that often needed a sons help. I never argued with James about this; I feared rekindling the gloom of those two years when he had been despondent. After so many years together, I was not only grateful to James but loved him truly, with all my heart. I could not imagine us parting; the thought of endless separation seemed unbearable, but for James I would endure anything.
One May evening a vague unease settled over me. Perhaps the long, idle summers, when James barely visited, had finally worn me down. I dialed his mobile.
James, where are you? At your parents? Why does your voice sound so strange? Did something happen? I only asked a simple question, sorry if I upset you. Goodbye.
I stared at the dead screen, tears welling. He had never spoken to me so brusquely. I paced the house, then, unable to bear the suspense, drove Oliver to his grandmothers and set off for the village where Jamess parents lived.
I arrived late, the lorry absent from the drive. Disappointed, I knocked on the cottage door. Mrs. Davies, surprised, opened it warmly, ushered me in, set the table, and we sat for tea while Mr. Davies slept upstairs. I meant to tell my motherinlaw about my anxiety when, from a bedroom, a sleepy little girl, about three years old, toddled out. She looked a great deal like James, her cheeks flushed, eyes rimmed with tears, calling for her mother. Mrs. Davies scooped her up, began to hum a simple lullaby.
Where did this child come from? I asked, bewildered.
This is our relatives daughter, Lydia, Mrs. Davies hastily replied. She passed away a few days ago. She had no one else, so we took little Katie in.
Will you keep her? I asked, feeling a pang of compassion. It must be hard, shes still an infant. And where is her father?
Before Mrs. Davies could answer, Mr. Davies emerged, apparently roused by the childs cries. He stared at me, then at the girl, and I kissed his cheek in apology for disturbing his rest.
Forgive us for waking you, I said, Katie is such a sweet little thing. Its a pity her mother is gone. Youve done well looking after her, but youre not young any more.
Mr. Davies gave a strange look to his wife, who hurried to explain:
Lydia, our cousin, died. We brought Katie here.
He nodded silently, waved his hand, and retreated to his room. I assumed his silence meant grief for Lydia, so I turned back to Mrs. Davies.
May I stay the night? Could I watch Katie in my room? I asked.
She hesitated, then consented.
All night I lay awake, stroking the childs light hair, already forming the words I would tell James and his parents the next morning. By dawn I had made my decision.
When I awoke, I found James standing by the bed, his gaze fixed on the sleeping girl. He looked tense, fear flickering in his eyes.
James, I whispered, pleading, shall we keep her? I can raise her, I promise.
He turned away sharply and fled the room. I hurried after him, finding him on a bench beneath an ancient oak in the garden, tears glistening.
Forgive me, he murmured, voice breaking, Im sorry.
Forgive what? I asked, bewildered. You dont want to take her? I understand you wanted a child of your own, but fate has dealt us this hand. She looks so much like you; she could be our own.
He closed his eyes, clenched his jaw.
She looks like me because she is my daughter, he shouted. Im sorry. I love you, truly. It was a foolish, fleeting mistake. Lydia lived with an old aunt in the neighbouring hamlet. I went to her birthday, and before I knew it she was pregnant and declared she would marry me. I promised to help, but never meant to leave you. My parents scolded me, believing Id betrayed you, but the child is hers. She brought Katie here two days ago, with paperwork relinquishing her rights, because shes marrying a foreigner and does not want the child. I didnt know what to do. I feared my ageing parents judgment. Katie can stay with me only if you agree to adopt her.
I was stunned, speechless. I rose slowly, entered the bedroom, and sat beside the sleeping Katie. I wanted to hate her, to find a flaw that mirrored James, but her tiny face only reflected his features, his gentle eyes. I wept quietly, covering my face with my hands, feeling the tears slip through my fingers, hoping they would wash away my hurt.
Then a warm hand brushed mine. I lifted my palms to see Katie gazing up at me with big blue eyes, smiling.
Dont be sad, Im not angry, she cooed. Let me braid your hair.
The smile broke my flood of tears. I imagined her in a grim childrens home, crying, ignored, and I swore to protect her.
Alright, Ill braid you, I whispered, though I could not yet tie a proper plait.
Soon the court granted us the adoption of Katie. Oliver was delighted, declaring he would be her protector now that he was the older brother. James gave up his longhaul routes; together we ran the shop and soon opened a second branch.
I never forgot Jamess brief infidelity, but I forgave him, never reproaching him, for I saw how sincerely he bore his guilt.
In late December we returned home from a school Christmas play, Katie clutching a massive box of sweets gifted by Father Christmas. She ran to her father, wrapped him in an embrace, and whispered, Dad, what I asked Father Christmas for is another brother or a sister.
James looked startled, answered, Little one, he cant grant that. Ask for something else.
Why not? I teased, smiling, Can we refuse the wishes of such a wonderful girl?
James froze, eyes on me, while I laughed and nodded. When Oliver came in from his football training, he saw James twirling me around the living room, both laughing, while Katie, chocolatesplattered, perched on the sofa, shoulders shrugged. Oliver sat beside Katie, took a sweet, and said, Weve got the best parents, havent we, sister?
