During Hard Times, I Married a Woman with Three ChildrenWe Were All We Had
In the bleak days of recession-hit England, I wed a woman with three kids, left to struggle on their own with no support.
«Blimey, Edward, you’re really going to marry a shop assistant with three children? Gone mad, have you?» Simon, my flatmate in the cramped shared house, clapped me on the back with a smirk.
«Whats wrong with that?» I barely glanced up from the clock I was repairing, screwdriver in hand, though I caught his eye sideways.
Back thenthe early 1980sour quiet Yorkshire town moved at its own sluggish pace. For me, a thirty-year-old bloke with no family, life was a dreary cycle between the factory and my narrow bed in the digs. After college, Id settled into it: work, the occasional game of darts, telly, and the odd pint with mates.
Sometimes Id watch children playing in the street from my window, and it would strike methat old longing for a family. But Id push it aside. What kind of family could you build in a shabby shared house?
Everything changed one damp October evening. I popped into the corner shop for a loaf. Same as always. Only this time, behind the counter stood *her*Margaret. Id never noticed her before, but now I couldnt look away. Tired but kind, with a quiet strength in her eyes.
«White or brown?» she asked, a faint smile touching her lips.
«White,» I mumbled, feeling like a schoolboy caught staring.
«Fresh from the bakery,» she said, wrapping it neatly before handing it over.
When our fingers brushed, something shifted. I fumbled for coins while stealing glances. Plain, in her shop apron, early thirties perhaps. Worn down, but with a spark inside.
A few days later, I spotted her at the bus stop, juggling bags while three children buzzed around her. The eldest, a boy of about fourteen, lugged a heavy satchel; a girl held the youngests hand.
«Let me help,» I said, taking a bag.
«No, its fine» she began, but I was already loading them onto the bus.
«Mum, whos this?» the little one piped up.
«Hush, Charlie,» his sister scolded.
On the ride, I learned they lived near the factory, in a crumbling postwar flat. The boy was Thomas, the girl Lucy, the little one Charlie. Margarets husband had passed years ago, and shed been raising them alone ever since.
«We manage,» she said with a weary smile.
That night, I lay awake. Her eyes, Charlies voicesomething long buried stirred in me, like a promise just within reach.
From then on, I became a regular at the shop. Milk one day, biscuits the next, sometimes just loitering. The lads at work took notice.
«Edward, mate, three trips a day? Thats not shopping, thats love,» my foreman, Higgins, chuckled.
«Just fancied something fresh,» I muttered, flushing.
«Or the shopgirl, eh?» he winked.
One evening, I waited for her after closing.
«Let me carry those,» I said, trying to sound casual.
«You dont have to»
«Sleeping on the ceilings the tricky part,» I joked, taking the bags.
As we walked, she told me about the childrenThomas did odd jobs after school, Lucy was top of her class, and Charlie had just learned to tie his shoes.
«Youre kind. But dont pity us,» she said suddenly.
«I dont. I want to be here.»
Later, I fixed their leaky tap. Charlie hovered, fascinated.
«Could you fix my toy lorry too?»
«Fetch it, lets have a look,» I smiled.
Lucy asked for help with sums. We worked through them together. Over tea, we talked. Only Thomas kept his distance. Then I overheard:
«Mum, dyou need him? What if he leaves?»
«Hes not like that.»
«Theyre *all* like that!»
I stood in the hallway, fists clenched. I nearly walked out. But then I remembered Lucys grin when she solved a tough problem, Charlies laughter as we fixed his toy, and I knewI couldnt leave.
Gossip swirled at work, but I ignored it. I knew what I was living for.
«Listen, Edward,» Simon said one night, «think it through. Why take that on? Find a nice girl without baggage.»
«Off your rocker, mate! Marry a shop assistant with three kids?»
«Piss off,» I grunted, still tinkering with the clock.
«Its not thatjust three kids, its»
«Shut it, Simon.»
One evening, I helped Charlie with a school project, cutting out shapes as he stuck out his tongue in concentration.
«Uncle Edward, are you gonna stay with us forever?» he asked suddenly.
«What dyou mean?»
«Yknow like a dad.»
I froze, scissors in hand. A floorboard creakedMargaret stood in the doorway, hand pressed to her mouth. Then she hurried to the kitchen.
She was crying into a tea towel.
«Margaret, love, whats wrong?» I touched her shoulder gently.
«Sorry Charlie doesnt understand what hes saying»
«What if hes right?» I turned her to face me.
Her tear-filled eyes widened.
«You mean it?»
«Dead serious.»
Then Thomas burst in.
«Mum, you alright? He upset you?» He glared at me.
«No, Thomas, its fine,» Margaret managed through tears.
«Liar! Whats he even doing here? Clear off!»
«Let him speak,» I met Thomass stare. «Say what you want.»
«Why dyou keep coming? Weve no money, the flats tinywhat dyou want?»
«You. And Lucy. And Charlie. And your mum. I need *all* of you. Im not going anywhere, so dont hold your breath.»
Thomas stared, then turned and slammed his bedroom door. Muffled sobs came through.
«Go to him,» Margaret whispered. «You have to.»
I found Thomas on the fire escape, hugging his knees, staring into the dark.
«Mind if I join you?» I sat beside him.
«What dyou want?»
«I grew up without a dad too. Mum tried, but it was hard.»
«So?»
«Just know what its likeno one to show you how to mend a bike or stand up for yourself.»
«I can fight,» he muttered.
«I bet. Youre a good lad, Thomas. But being a man isnt just fists. Its knowing when to let someone help. For your family.»
He was quiet. Then, barely audible:
«You really wont leave?»
«Never.»
«Swear it.»
«On my life.»
«Dont lie,» he almost smiled.
«Aunt Joan, dyou have anything simpler?» I squinted at rings in Woolworths.
«Edward Whitmore, youre seriously marrying Margaret? With *three* children?»
«Dead serious,» I said, eyeing a plain band with a tiny stone.
I proposed without fussjust a bunch of wildflowers (shed once said she preferred them to roses). Charlie tackled me at the door.
«Whore the flowers for?»
«Your mum. And theres something else.»
Margaret froze when she saw them.
«Edward» My voice shook. «Maybe we should make it official? Feels odd, just visiting.»
Lucy gasped. Thomas looked up from his book. Margaret burst into tears.
«Mum, is it a bad present?» Charlie panicked.
«The *best*, love,» she smiled through tears.
We married quietly at the factory canteen. Margaret wore a homemade white dress; I had a new suit. Thomas shadowed her all day, solemn. Lucy decorated with friends. Charlie raced around announcing, «This is my new dad! Forever now!»
A month later, the factory gave us a two-bed in a new estate. Higgins even helped move us in.
«Alright, newlywed,» he clapped my back. «Just dont expect us to paint it for you.»
«Wouldnt dream of it,» I grinned.
And we did it ourselvesThomas plastering, Lucy choosing wallpaper, Charlie passing tools. Margaret cooked, and we ate on the floor. It was the happiest Id ever been.
Margaret quit the shopI insisted she rest. Thomas started technical college, helping me with projects. Lucy took up ballet. Charlie just *glowed*.
Not that it was perfect. We had rows. Once, Thomas came home drunkfirst time with mates. I didnt shout, just sat opposite him.
«How is it?»
«Rubbish,» he admitted. «Heads killing me.»
«Good. Means youll think twice next time.»
Years passed like pages in a well-loved novel. One rainy autumn evening, as I watched Charlienow taller than meteach his own son to fix a broken toy lorry, I realized the circle had closed. The love wed built had grown roots deep enough to outlast us all.
The lesson? Family isnt about bloodits about choosing to stay, even when the road is rough. And sometimes, the hardest paths lead to the richest rewards.
