So, listen to this
«BLOOD CALLED HER HOME IN THE END»
«Emma, as your husband, Im setting one condition. Lets forget this silly fling with that pushy lover of yours. But Im asking one thinggive me a son.» I sounded pathetic, worse than ever.
«Alright, James, Ill try,» my wife agreed, though her voice wavered. The compromise weighed heavily on her.
Wed raised three daughterstwelve-year-old Charlotte, nine-year-old Sophie, and eight-year-old Emily. So where did this twenty-year-old pretty boy, Oliver, come from? He wrecked my life completely. They say its not the years that age you, but the grief.
The girls were confused. Their mum went from warm and loving to distant, always dolled up but ghostly. The house changed toodust piled up, dishes sat unwashed, and I turned into a nervous, irritable mess. I kept wondering how to bring my stray wife back home.
It all started six months ago. A chance meeting on a cruise ship. Emma had taken the girls to the seaside and came back distractedstaring right through me, barely hugging the kids. I suspected something wasnt right. There was a crack in the family, but I pretended not to notice. Facing her betrayal wouldve hurt too much. Time would tell. And it did.
«Dad, Mum spent the whole holiday holding hands with Oliver,» Sophie blurted out innocently.
«Tell me more, love,» I said, forcing calm as my face paled.
«Well, this man was always around. Mum laughed at his jokes. He even saw us off at the station. He was handsome, stylish. Younger than you.» Sophie shattered my heart in one go.
No way. Just a silly holiday fling, nothing more. Why would some young playboy want a thirty-year-old woman with three kids? Plenty of tanned, carefree girls on the promenadejust whistle, and theyd come running.
But I was wrong.
Emma and Oliver fell hard, and nothing could save our marriagenot pleas, not the kids, not guilt. Peace left my soul forever.
She did give me a sonWilliam. But he never saw me as his dad. I barely saw him. Oliver raised him. Emma took one-year-old William and left for good. I stayed with my girls. I nearly gave up then, ice settling in my chest.
«Dad, if Mums gone, well cook, clean, do your laundry,» little Emily said, wiping my tears with her sleeve. That was the last time I broke down.
After the grief, I pulled myself togetherthree girls needed me. I taught them everything, scolded them sometimes, but the house became clean and cosy again. Charlotte loved washing up, Sophie swept floors, Emily chased dust. I managed basic cooking.
Emma visited sometimes, but it only stirred pain. The girls would cry for hours after. So I asked her to stop comingfor their sake.
«James, I love them! Youre asking me to abandon them for you?» she argued.
«No, Emma, for them. If you love them, let them grow up first. Then theyll decide if they want to see you.» I think I sounded firm.
«Maybe youre right. I cry after seeing them too. Time will tell. Goodbye, James.» She kissed the girls and left for good.
As teens, my daughters despised their mum and William. I think they envied himhe had a mother who doted on him, while theyd lost theirs.
But when they marriedCharlotte and Sophie with four kids each, Emily with threetheir anger faded. Bitterness lingered, but they made peace. Theyre devoted mums now, determined to do better.
I live alone. Thereve been women over the years, but I called them all «Emma.» Whod stick around for that? My heart never moved on. So I stayed single. Got used to it.
At sixty, Emma passed away. A week before, she came to me unexpectedly, crying, begging forgiveness. She confessed everything, even complaining about Williamwhod shocked her by coming out as transgender. After surgeries, he was now «Willow,» happier than ever.
Then came the will. Olivera wealthy businessman whod put everything in Emmas nameended up in hospital when he found out shed left it all to the girls and Willow, cutting him out completely.
Why? Maybe blood mattered more. She did love the girlsjust buried it deep.
The girls tried giving the inheritance to me: «Dad, take it. You deserve it.»
I refused. That money burned my hands. I passed it to the kids.
Oliver went bankrupt, begging my daughters for help. They said, «You stole our mother, our childhoodnow get lost.»
Willow married an Italian, Roberto, moved to Italy, and plans to adopt. Emily keeps in touch, but Charlotte and Sophie want nothing to do with her.
This all happened after I moved us to England, chasing a better life. Now, years later, I sit by the window every evening, watching the garden where the girls once played. The roses Emily planted still bloom wild and red each June. I never travel far. My bones are tired, my hair long gone, but my mind stays sharptoo sharp for comfort. Just last week, I found an old shoebox under the bed, full of faded photos: Emma laughing on the pier, the girls in matching coats, a baby William in her arms. I held one to my chest until my breath steadied.
Yesterday, Willow sent a letterher handwriting soft, carefulfrom a villa outside Florence. She wrote that she dreams of me sometimes, standing on a shore, calling her name. She signed it, Love, Willow, and beneath it, in smaller letters, Thank you, Granddad.
I folded the note gently and placed it in my pocket, where it stays.
Blood called her home in the end, but lovethat quiet, stubborn thingoutlasted it all.
