**A Stepmothers Heart of Gold**
Not long ago, the wedding bells had rung. Not long ago, the whole family had gathered, laughing, singing, dancingno one couldve guessed itd be their last happy reunion. Only the mother-in-law sat scowling in the corner. Shed taken an instant dislike to the delicate, slight bride. «Pretty enough, Ill give her that,» Edith muttered under her breath. «But what good is beauty if she cant lift a bundle of firewood, carry a full bucket, or stack hay? Not a lick of strength in her. Ive worked my whole lifethought my lad would bring home a proper strong lass to take my place, not some frail thing wholl be more burden than help.»
Margaret noticed Ediths simmering resentment, though her new husband, William, tried to reassure her. «Mums never had patience for weaklings,» he warned. «She values broad shoulders, strong hands, and a back that doesnt bend under work. She could toss my drunk father into bed with one arm. When she hitched a horse, even the stable lads stepped aside. She walked behind the plough straight as a rod, turning soil like it was butter. And in haymaking season? Shed stack a rick in an hour while others fumbled half the day.»
God had given Edith a mans strength but none of her womanly softness. Margarets own mother hadnt been keen on the match either. They lived just down the lane, and Martha had seen Ediths brute force firsthandre-thatching the roof single-handed, wrestling beams into place, working the fields like an ox. What sort of daughter-in-law could ever satisfy her?
But Margaret wouldnt be swayed. «I wont lose the man I love over Ediths temper,» shed thought. «Shell soften with age, dote on grandchildren while William and I build our life.»
No one knew war loomed on the horizon. Six months after the wedding, it came crashing down. Those first months had felt like a trialWilliam doting on his bride, making Edith sneer. «Pathetic,» shed grumble. «Wont even let her lift a pail. Coddling her like a child. Takes after his useless father, that one.»
Edith hadnt chosen her life. Her own mother had dragged her to a widowers doora meek, drink-sodden man with a roof that leaked and a cow in the yard. «Better a quiet drunk than dying a spinster,» her mother had reasoned. Now, facing a scrappy, broad-shouldered girl, the widower had shrugged. «Shell do.»
For weeks, neither spoke. Only little William clung to Ediths skirts, smiling, begging to be held. Over time, she grew into a fine housekeeperbut love for her husband? Never. And he offered none in return. Her joy came solely from the boy. She taught him patience, discipline, swinging between fierce hugs and the occasional belt when he misbehaved. Later, shed weep, begging his forgiveness, and hed cling to her, whispering, «Sall right, Mum.»
When his father died, neither truly mourned. Edith cupped her sons face. «God gave me you, lad. I never wanted to be just a stepmotherI wanted to be *your* mother.» Her rough features softened then, eyes warm, smile crinkling her sun-worn cheeks. «Youll marry strong someday,» shed say, hugging him tight. «Bring home a strapping lass, build us a new house. Save me a corner, mindsomeones got to keep things right.»
William would grin, thinking, *My mums the strongest, kindest woman alive.*
Time flew. The wedding passed. Then war came stomping through, trampling everything in its wake. Edith stood hollow-cheeked at the funeral, watching her son march away. When Margaret tried to comfort her, Edith snapped, «Save your prayers for him. Hes my life. If he dies, Ive no reason left.»
The waiting wore them ragged. Edith sneered at Margarets clumsinessspilled water, fumbling with firewood, dough that refused to knead. «Useless chit,» shed grumble, though her eyes held no real malice, only fear. Then one morning, she noticed Margaret nibbling pickles from the barrel. Edith knew *that* sign.
Hunger crept closer each day. Edith had hidden flour, sugar, salt in the loft, but war didnt ask permission. Soon Margaret could barely stand. «Eat,» Edith ordered, shoving bread slathered in butter at her. «Sit still if youre too weak to work.»
Williams letters came often*»Dearest Mum and my Margaret»*until they didnt. Edith knelt by the hearth, begging, *»Take my strength, Lord. Give it to him. And forgive me for hiding the babeIve no faith in that girls spine.»*
The birthing nearly killed them both. A storm raged as Edith hauled Margaret to the midwifes cottage. Five hours of blood and screaming later, a squalling boy arrived. Margaret lay ghost-pale, but alive. When her mother offered to take her home, Edithsuddenly small, tremblinglooked at Margaret like a scolded child.
Margarets gaze locked with hers. *Im staying.*
Edith straightened like shed been given new breath. By night, she rocked the babe, whispering, «Suck harder, little Henry. Your dads coming home to hug you proper.» She cut up her late husbands shirts for nappies, even the linen meant for her shroud. «No use dressing fancy for the grave,» she told Margaret. «Youre still hopeless, but the lad likes strong arms. Minell do till yours toughen up.»
Margaret didnt mind. The woman shed once feared now moved with unexpected gentleness. Her hands, though calloused, cradled Henry like he was spun glass.
Victory came. Soldiers trickled home. Still no word from Williamuntil a dusty afternoon when Henry barreled into a strangers legs. The man lifted him, heart pounding.
William stumbled into the cottage. Ediths wail split the air. Margaret pressed her cheek to his chest. «We never doubted you.»
«I know,» he rasped. «My boy was waiting.»
Edith watched them, thinking, *Happiness isnt just a feeling. Its thisyour son, whole, holding his family. And knowing you helped keep them alive. She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, then reached for the kettle. «Tea,» she said, voice rough but warm. «Well have tea, and youll eat. All of you.» The fire crackled as she set the pot to boil, her shadow stretching tall and steady across the flooronce a fortress, now a shelter. And for the first time, Margaret saw not a woman of iron, but a heart that had learned, in silence, how to bend.
