During Hard Times, I Married a Woman with Three ChildrenWe Stood Together
In the midst of Britains economic struggles, I married a woman with three children, left to manage on her own with no support.
«Blimey, Edward, youre really going to wed a shop assistant with three kids? Gone mad, have you?» my flatmate, Nigel, clapped me on the back with a smirk as we shared our cramped London lodgings.
«Whats the matter with that?» I muttered, barely glancing up from mending an old radio, though I caught his eye.
Back thenthe early 1980sour quiet Yorkshire town moved at its own unhurried rhythm. For me, a thirty-year-old man with no family, life was a monotonous cycle between the factory and my narrow bed in shared digs. After university, Id settled into it: work, the occasional chess match, telly, and a pint with mates now and then.
Sometimes Id gaze out the window at children playing in the courtyard, and it would strike methe old dream of a family. But Id brush it aside. What sort of family could one have in a dingy boarding house?
Everything shifted one damp October evening. I stopped by the corner shop for a loaf of bread. Routine as ever. Only this time, behind the counter stood *her*Margaret. Id never paid her much mind before, but now I couldnt look away. Tired yet warm, with a quiet spark in her eyes.
«White or brown?» she asked, the faintest smile touching her lips.
«White,» I mumbled, feeling like a schoolboy caught staring.
«Fresh from the bakery this morning,» she said, wrapping it neatly before handing it over.
When our fingers brushed, something clicked. I fumbled for coins while stealing glances. Ordinary, in her shop apron, perhaps early thirties. Worn but with a light inside.
Days later, I spotted her at the bus stop, wrestling with shopping bags while three children fussed around her. The eldest, a boy of about fourteen, stubbornly carried the heaviest bag; a girl held the youngests hand.
«Let me help,» I said, taking a bag.
«No, its alright» she began, but Id already loaded 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 worn-down postwar flat. The boy was Thomas, the girl Sophie, the little one Charlie. Margarets husband had passed years ago, and shed been raising them alone ever since.
«We get by,» she said with a weary smile.
That night, sleep eluded me. Her eyes, Charlies voicesomething long buried stirred in me, like a promise waiting just ahead.
From then on, I became a regular at the shop. Milk one day, biscuits the next, sometimes just lingering. The lads at work noticed.
«Edward, three trips a day? Thats not shopping, thats love,» my foreman, Higgins, chuckled.
«Just fancied something fresh,» I muttered, flushing.
«Or the shop assistant, eh?» he teased.
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 bit,» I joked, taking the bags.
As we walked, she told me about the childrenThomas did odd jobs after school, Sophie was top of her class, and Charlie had just learned to tie his laces.
«Youre kind. But dont pity us,» she said abruptly.
«I dont. I want to be here.»
Later, I fixed their dripping tap. Charlie hovered, fascinated.
«Could you mend my toy lorry too?»
«Bring it here, lets see,» I smiled.
Sophie asked for help with arithmetic. We worked through sums. 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 Sophies 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 mattered.
«Listen, Edward,» Nigel said one night, «think it through. Why take that on? Find a nice girl without baggage.»
«Youre off your rocker, mate! Marry a shop assistant with three kids?»
«Piss off,» I grunted, still fiddling with the radio.
«Its not thatthree kids, its»
«Shut it, Nigel.»
One evening, I helped Charlie with a school project, cutting out shapes while 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 if hes right?» I turned her to face me.
Her tear-filled eyes widened.
«You mean it?»
«Dead serious.»
Then Thomas barged 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 Sophie. And Charlie. And your mum. I need *all* of you. Im not going anywhere, so dont hold your breath.»
Thomas stared, then slammed his bedroom door. Muffled sobs followed.
«Go to him,» Margaret whispered. «You must.»
I found Thomas on the fire escape, hugging his knees, staring into the night.
«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 your ground.»
«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 Lydia, 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 daisies (shed once said she liked them better than roses). Charlie barrelled into 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.»
Sophie 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 wore a new suit. Thomas shadowed her all day, solemn. Sophie decorated with friends. Charlie raced around announcing, «This is my new dad! Forever now!»
A month later, the factory gave us a two-bedroom house in a new estate. Higgins even helped us move.
«Alright, newlywed,» he clapped my back. «Dont expect us to wallpaper it for you.»
«Wouldnt dream of it,» I grinned.
And we did it ourselvesThomas plastering, Sophie choosing wallpaper, Charlie passing tools. Margaret cooked, and we ate on the floor. It was the happiest Id ever been.
Margaret left the shopI insisted she rest. Thomas started technical college, helping me with projects. Sophie took up ballet. Charlie just *shone*.
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 pounding.»
«Good. Means you learned.»
The years passed like chapters in a well-worn novel, and 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 taken root, strong enough to outlast us all.
Lifes greatest blessings often come wrapped in unexpected packagesand sometimes, the family you choose is the one that chooses you back.
