**The Proposal**
«One of the greatest mistakes is to think of people as simply good, evil, foolish, or wise. A person is fluidcapable of anything. One day foolish, the next wise; today cruel, tomorrow kind. That is the greatness of man. And that is why we must never judge. You condemn a man, and already he has changed.» So wrote Leo Tolstoy in his diaries long ago.
To argue with greatness is hardsometimes near impossible. Life proves him right every time, if only we look closely, sift truth from illusion, and then the heart of it becomes clear.
But today, such thoughts feel too heavy, for the morning burns hot. A true July heat, as if the air had struck the sun-scorched walls, bounced like a ball onto the pavementeven hotterand then surrendered, bowing its head before the sun pouring summer from the sky.
Yet inside Emily, it is winter. A bitter, biting cold. This summer happens without her.
School is just behind her. University should be her next thought, as expected of any graduate. But Emily is pregnant. What use is university now? And then theres Jamesthe betrayer. When she told him about the baby, he only bit his lip, turned to the window, and said:
«I was the first but there couldve been a second.»
Emily didnt even cry. She just stood there, staring at his back. It was just a backcalm, unbothered. His breathing steady. She wanted to say more, still unsure what to do next, but then the doorbell rangher mother was home. James went to answer, exchanged quick greetings in the hall, and left.
Her mother marched straight into Emilys room. «Whats happened?» she demanded. Emily, flustered, blurted it out:
«Nothings happened. Im just pregnant.»
Her mother stared straight into her eyes. Then she shriekedbut Emily didnt hear the words. The sound was drowned out by the sharp crack of her mothers slap across her face.
And thats when the winter began inside Emily. As if snow had fallen all at once, burying her up to her neck. Cold. Empty. Outside and in.
Her mother kept shouting, but snow muffles everything. So Emily sank onto the edge of her bed and started to cryexcept the tears stayed inside, freezing in her chest, turning to crystal beads that rolled hollowly in the void.
Her mother stormed out. The front door slammed. Silence. And Emily was left alone, trapped between frozen tears and the sweltering July evening.
She curled into a ball on her bed and weptproperly now, like a girl should. Sniffling, sobbing. Not for herself, nofor the child. Unborn, unwanted. Not by its father. Not by its grandmother. Not even by her, its foolish mother. No one wanted it.
She slept, though daylight still lingered outside. Even dreamed something. Woke when someone sat beside her, stroking her hair.
Her mother had come back.
«Emmy, love forgive me,» she whispered. «Im a fool, though not yet old. I should be happymy girls grown. Soon to be a mother herself. And I»
She was crying now, wiping tears with the back of her hand, still talking.
«Only, listenwhat if its a boy? Please, not a boy. Mentheyre allwell, you know. None of em ever really understand a woman. Not your dad. Not mine either!»
Now Emily wailedloud, ugly, like a proper grown woman. She sat up, clung to her mother, arms tight around the one person who mattered most. They cried together, mourning their own sorrows. But at least they were warm. And after allsummer still burned outside.
Thenthe doorbell again.
Her mother sniffed hard, wiped her face, stopped Emily from rising. «Stay there, love. Ill get it.»
She went, smoothing her hair as she walked. Tragedy or not, a lady mustnt look a messespecially if a mans at the door.
She opened it. And there stood not one man, but two. James, and in fronthis father.
«Good evening, Mrs. Whitmore,» the older man began. «Forgive the hour. But my lad heres told me everything. Or so I hope.» He turned to his son. «Or was there more, future granddad?»
James hung his head. His father went on.
«So. Weve comeboth of usto ask for your daughters hand. That is, if Emily can forgive the rubbish he spouted earlier.» He shot James a look, then cuffed him round the ear. «Go on then, you little sod. Beg her forgiveness. And if she wont have youyoure no son of mine!»
Yes. A man is fluid. Ever-changing. We make mistakes, and sometimes we dont know how to fix them. Thank God for mothers and fathers. Theyd never steer us wrong.
