Mom, why are you hiding that letter? I asked, my voice a thin thread in the kitchens hum.
Its from the village, from your granddad, she waved a hand, turning back to the skillet, the onions clinking like tiny bells.
Granddad? Youve never spoken of him. You told me theres no one left on your side of the family. She paused, the knife pausing midair, then resumed its frantic choreography.
Itsthere. And what of it? I left home years ago, thought I didnt need that part of me. Now Im supposed to drop everything and rush to his side. She broke down, tears spilling like hot broth. I didnt know what to say. In our house, talk of her kin was a locked cupboard; all I knew was that Margaret had moved to the city straight after school, worked in a factory, lived in a dormitory, and I was born a few years later. My father had walked out before I even drew my first breath.
The old grudges that sat heavy on Moms shoulders were a mystery I could never ask about.
That night, after Mom fell asleep, I slipped into her room, gathered the crumpled envelope, and unfolded the neat, elegant scriptnone of the shaky hand of a frail old man. The letter said Grandfather Arthur Whitfield had taken a turn for the worse, needed constant care and costly medicine. It begged Mom to lay aside old resentments and pride, for his life hung in the balance. No signature, just an address. The village was only a short ride from our city, a few kilometres from my friend Lucys countryside cottage. A cold shiver raced down my spine; Id visited Lucy often, and Arthurs little farm lay just beyond the hedgerows. How could Mom have kept this from us?
The next morning I packed my university bag, slipped a few pounds into my pocket, and headed for the coach station.
Stepping off the bus, I inhaled the pure, tearclear air of the countryside. A crooked, mosscovered cottage sat a stones throw from the stop. I pushed through the gate and entered the yard.
Who are you looking for? a voice called from beneath an apple tree. A woman in her forties, her hands dusted with fresh mushrooms, turned.
Im looking for Arthur Whitfieldmy grandfather.
Ah, the farmers daughter, she smiled, a flash of recognition. Come in, Ill put the kettle on. Hes napped after lunch; the medicine helped a bit.
The cottage smelled of warm pies. As the woman bustled at the stove, I noticed she mirrored my mothers sharp eyes, dark as night, hair as black as soot, even her cadence. My gaze drifted to a faded portrait on the wall: a smiling man and woman with two little girls, twins perhaps.
She caught my stare. Thats usyour mother and our parents. Im Susan, her sister, your aunt. She laughed, a sound that seemed to echo through the cottages timber beams.
Its strange, Ive never heard of you. Mum always swore we had no relatives.
She sighed, poured tea, and began, Your mothers wound ran deep. She was a sickly child; our mother never left her side in hospitals. Father worked day and night to keep a roof over us and pay for treatments. Susan lived with Grandma at first, then often with a neighbour when Dad was away. All the love seemed to fall on me. From a young age she convinced herself no one loved her, that she was useless. When she got her diploma, she fled to the city and we never saw her again.
She paused, then added, Drink your tea, you must be hungry after the road. I have two grandchildren, Alisha and Leo. I raise them alone; people keep asking if I have any family. Theyll be delighted to meet yours.
That evening I met Grandfather Arthur, the shy cousin Tom, and his sister Lily. Their hospitality made the notion of a big, joyous family feel tangible, like a tapestry woven at a single table. I stayed a few days, bought the medicines they needed.
Mom called repeatedly, begging me to return home immediately, but I could not abandon Arthur, and Aunt Susan was stretched thin between work and caring for him.
Who will pay for your tuition if you leave? Mom shouted into the phone. Ive done everything for yousleepless nights, raising youwhere are you now? With people who havent lifted a finger for us?
Im not sure what youre saying, I replied, you havent given me an address in fifteen years strangers, kin Hes my grandfather first. Let the past go. He needs care. If you wont come, Ill stay. By the way, you have a wonderful sister and nephews. Dont be so hard on yourself, Mum.
She slammed the receiver, redialed, but our words spiraled into silence.
A week later I returned to the city for my final semester; my heart felt out of place. The pennies I earned from putting up flyers and a few hours of tutoring barely covered the bus fare back to the village. Yet I sent every spare pound I could.
Our relationship resembled a taut violin string; once she even hid my passport so Id stay for the holiday weekend instead of traveling to the village.
A year slipped by in a blur of chores, arguments, and fleeting reconciliations. When I finally held my degree, I packed and left.
In the village Aunt Susan arranged a teaching post for me; life settled into a gentle rhythm. Grandfather Arthur began walking again, taking short strolls through the garden, his eyes still tinged with longing for his missing daughter.
September arrived with bustling schoolrooms and the delight of firstgraders. I loved them so much I ran to work each morning as if it were a celebration. I also began to notice a quiet fondness for our history teacher, Alex, another recent graduate from a city university who, like me, had somehow been drawn to the countryside.
Amy, Aunt Susan would whisper, dont write Alex off. Hes a good lad, built his own little house, and though he stayed in the village while others chased city lights, hes a decent man.
Soon Alex asked me out, and our romance unfolded like a slowgrowing vine. Grandfather Arthur approved, and when Leo proposed, the whole family blessed us.
We set the wedding for late April. I sent Mum a letter announcing it; her silence cut deeper than any scolding. I felt the sting of her absence on such a day.
On the eve of the ceremony, while Aunt Susan and two friends flurried around the kitchen, a soft knock echoed through the cottage.
I rushed to the door. There, on the threshold, stood Mom, tears streaming down her cheeks.
I Im just here for a moment, to wish you well, she stammered.
I ushered her inside, but she hesitated, frozen at the doorway. Aunt Susan burst from the kitchen, and Grandfather Arthur followed, his hands trembling. He wrapped his arms around his daughter; they stood there, wiping each others tears, murmuring halfhearted apologies.
Years have now drifted by. I live in the village, surrounded by a large, loving family, children growing up around me, still teaching the little ones in the primary school. Most of all, I finally have the relatives my mother once called strangers. Mom never left; shes reconciled with my father and sister, and the past remains where it belongsbehind us, like a fading dream.
