**Diary Entry**
The biting wind nipped at my cheeks as I hauled the fallen pine across the snow. Uncle Arthur, the local gamekeeper, had whispered the night before*»Take it after dark, lad»*so here I was, dragging the damned thing home. My breath came in ragged puffs, the weight of the wood making my arms tremble.
Then*»Eddie! Eddie!»*that voice. Of course. Tilly. Sharp-eyed Tilly from school, always where she shouldnt be.
*»What dyou want?»*
*»Let me help.»*
Stubborn girl. Where did she find the strength? Still, it was easier with two. We hitched the sledge between us and trudged on.
*»Whos watching the little ones?»*
*»Gran, who else? Mums at work.»*
*»Oh.»* A pause. *»Came by with your schoolwork earlier. Door was locked. Tom said youd gone toward the woodstold em to stay put.»*
*»Had to lock it…»*
*»She still runs off?»*
*»Aye. Keeps talkin about going home to Mum.»*
*»Poor thing. Sufferin herself, makin you suffer too.»*
*»Mm.»*
We got the log home. *»Ta, Tilly.»*
*»Dont mention it. Fetch the sawwell make quick work.»*
*»Ill manageyouve done enough.»*
*»Right. You and your wee handsaw. Come on.»*
We sawed in rhythm, the dry wood splitting clean. Through the window, little Tom and baby Annie pressed their noses to the glass. I wedged the axe into a logcrackonce, twice, till it split. Tilly gathered kindling while I worked.
Soon, the stove roared. Warmth crept into the cottage, light dancing on the ceiling.
*»Let me make soup. Auntie Lizll be tired when she gets in.»*
*»Nah, Granll manage,»* I muttered, but Tom whined: *»Let her, Eddie! Remember last time Gran cooked? Threw in cabbage, peas, even Mums dill seedsfit for pigs!»*
Tilly laughed. *»Ill do it. Tom, help peel.»*
Then*»Whos this?»*a creaky voice from the bed. Gran, still in her boots and shawl.
*»Gran, get changedits warm now.»*
*»Freezin, Michael.»*
*»Not Michael. Eddie. Your grandson.»*
*»Eh? Wheres Michael?»*
*»Gone. Back soon.»*
Tilly frowned. *»She means yer dad?»*
I shrugged. Didnt talk about him.
MichaelDadMums husband. Ran off to his fancy woman last winter, left Gran with us. Took everything: slaughtered the pigs, stole the milk cow, even the heifer, Daisy. Mum begged*»Leave the heifer, at least»*but hed laughed. *»What sort o groom shows up empty-handed?»*
Hated him since. Took half the stores, even counted out the bloody spoons. Mum just stood there, tallying his theft.
She came home to us huddled by the lamp, me reading to Tom, Gran dozing by the stove, Annie sucking her thumb asleep.
*»Mum!»* Tom whispered. *»Eddie got woodhim and Tilly sawed itstoves hotTilly made soupAnnies asleepGran tried escaping twice»*
Mum ruffled his hair. *»Eddie… you do too much.»*
*»Salright. Eatsoups good.»*
Later, as Mum mended clothes, a knock came. A round, bundled figure burst inVal, our neighbor.
*»Bloody freezin! Brought cracklins and lardhere.»*
*»Val, you shouldnt»*
*»Nonsense. Got flour?»*
*»A bit.»*
*»Take these eggs, then. Froze em last winter. Well manage till springplant the allotment, yeah? And dont fret seed potatoesJohn said well spare some.»* She leaned in. *»Listen… our sows farrowing soon. If one dont make it… well. Keep it quiet.»*
Two nights later, Val smuggled in a runttiny as a mitten.
*»Val, if they find out»*
*»They wont. Thirteen pigletswhod miss one?»*
Next day, the farm stewardDads old matecalled Mum in.
*»Take a piglet,»* he muttered, eyes down. *»Valll pick a good un. Milk rations sorted for the bairns. Come April, well give you a heifer.»*
*»Thank you, Mr. Floyd.»*
At the door, he stopped her. *»Liz… Im sorry. About Michael. Didnt think hed… take everything.»*
She just nodded.
We got by. Me, Tilly (stewards daughter, of all people), Tom helping where he could. Raised that pigletthen two more, tails curled, snouts rooting.
Till one evening, busybody Clara called out: *»Liz! Heard Michaels swannin about with that hussylaughin on their sled! And here you lot starvin»*
*»Were not starvin!»* Mum sped home, hid in the shed, and wept.
Thenscritch-scratch at the door.
*»Mum? Whyre you Gran?!»*
Gran stood there, rope in hand. *»Im a burden. Tired o draggin you down.»*
Mum snatched the rope. *»How could you? After all»* They cried together, wind-worn faces wet.
*»Come inside. Well bake currant buns.»*
By spring, Gran took to bed, calling for Michael.
He never came. Sent coin for the funeral, though. The village judged him harsh*»Devil abandoned his own!»*but what did he care?
*»Liz was dull,»* they said. *»That Lucynow theres fire.»*
Maybe. But I saw him once at Grans grave, kneeling.
*»Forgive me, Mum.»*
*»She did,»* Mum said quietly, setting down a flask. *»Drink. Honour her.»*
Silence.
*»Ill go. Speak to her.»*
*»Will she hear?»*
*»A mothers heart always hears, Michael.»* She turned. *»Lifes just… like that. The wind dropped as he knelt again, this time not alone. Tom left a small carved pig at the foot of the gravehis handiwork, painted brown with a green collar, just like the runt wed saved. Years passed. The cottage stayed cold some nights, but never as cold as that first winter. Tilly and I married come harvest. We kept the stove burning, the crocks full, the children fed. And every Sunday, without fail, we set an extra plate by the firejust in case someone came home.
