The Stepmother with a Mothers Heart
The wedding bells had barely faded when the family gathered, laughing and dancing, not knowing it would be their last reunion. Only the mother-in-law sat grim-faced, displeased with the frail, delicate bride. «Pretty enough,» she muttered, «but what use is beauty if she cant lift a bundle of firewood or carry a pail of water? Ive worked like an ox all my life, and now my son brings home a reed, not a wife.» These bitter thoughts gnawed at Prudence, and her simmering resentment didnt escape Marys notice.
Michael soothed his young wife but warned herhis mother wouldnt go easy. She despised weakness, valued strengthbroad shoulders, quick strides. Shed once thrown her drunken husband into bed with one hand. When she harnessed a horse, even the stablemen stepped back. Behind the plough, she walked upright, her powerful arms turning the earth in glossy furrows. At haymaking, she could stack a rick in an hour while others fumbled all day.
God had given her a mans strength but stripped her of a womans tenderness. Marys own mother hadnt wanted her to marry into such a household. They lived nearby, and Theresa had marveled at Prudences brute forcehow shed hoist roof beams alone, plough fields single-handed. What sort of daughter-in-law could ever please her? Who could match her? And if anyone tried, theyd only earn her scorn.
But Mary wouldnt listen. She trusted her own spirit, believing Prudence would soften with age, content to dandle grandchildren while she and Michael ran the farm. «Am I to lose the man I love over her?» she thought.
No one knew war lurked just months ahead, bringing not joy but separation. Those six months felt like a trial. Michael doted on his wife, which only enraged Prudence. «What sort of man wont let his wife lift a pail? Always coddling herno spine, just like his worthless father.»
Prudence had been wed to a widower as a girla meek, drunkard of a man with a leaking thatch roof and a single cow. Her own mother saw it as salvation from poverty. Hed eyed her rough features, broad frame, and grunted, «Shell do.» For weeks, neither spoke. Only the toddler clinging to her skirts brought a smile. In time, she became a fine housekeeperbut love never came. Her solace was the boys devotion.
She grew into motherhood, strict but tender. She taught Michael patience, labor, obediencerewarding him with rough kisses. But the strap waited for mischief. Shed repent afterward, weeping as they forgave each other.
Michael grew kind, gentle, adoring her. When his father died, they hardly mourned. Prudence pressed his hands and said, «I never wanted to be a stepmother. I tried to be a mother.» Her smile softened her harsh face, warmth flooding her eyes. «Youll marry strong, sturdya girl who can keep up. Build us a new home, save me a corner. Ill mind the house, though your wifell manage fine.»
Michael grinned, thinking, *My beautiful, kind, mighty mother. Not like Fathera shadow in his own home.*
Time flew. The wedding. Then war, trampling everything. Prudence sagged as she sent him off, wailing into her apron. Mary, tearful, tried to comfort her. «Dont waste prayers on me,» Prudence rasped. «Beg God to spare him. Hes my life. Without him, Ive nothing.»
The waiting was agony. Mary was no helpstruggling with half-pails of water, fumbling with dough, her small hands too weak for the cows udders. Prudence scoffed, «Useless girl. Shouldve stayed unwed.» But her eyes held no maliceonly fear.
Then Mary grew ill, retching over pickled cucumbers. Prudence knew the signs. Hunger stalked closer, though shed hidden flour, sugar, salt in the attic. War respected no preparations.
Mary weakened, barely able to eat. Prudence coaxed her with bread, tea, orders to rest. «Sit still if you cant work.»
Michaels letters came often, opening with *»Dearest Mother and my Mary.»* Prudence kissed the paper, wept. She forbade Mary to mention the pregnancy. «I lost mineI was strong, youre not. Wait til its born. Eat. *Force* yourself.»
The baby grew swiftly. Mary dreamed of Michaels return, holding their son. She asked Prudence, «What do you hope for?»
«A healthy child. Like Michael. Youre narrowI fear for you. But pray. God gives strength when its needed.»
Letters stopped. Prudence knelt, bargaining: *Take my strength, my courage, my soulgive them to him. Spare him. Forgive me for hiding the childI doubt her.*
Silence. Each day, they hid tears, hoping. Prudence withered, her powerful frame gaunt. Mary watched her survive on crusts, working the farm in silence.
Then labor came. The midwife refused to stay. A gale roared as Prudence hitched the horse, bundled Mary, and raced through the storm. «Save them,» she begged the midwife.
Five hours of battlelife and death grappling. Then a cry. A robust boy. Mary, drained, hovered near death. The midwife warned recovery would be slow.
Marys mother wanted to take her home. Prudence, gray and shrunken, stood like a scolded child. Their eyes metgratitude in one, pleading in the other. «Ill stay with *her*,» Mary whispered. «She saved us.»
Prudence straightened, radiant as if *shed* given birth.
She rose nightly to the cradle, fearing Mary wouldnt hear the baby. She cut her husbands shirts for little John, used her burial linen for swaddling. «No need to dress fine for heaven,» she told Mary. «Youre still helpless. A child needs strong arms.»
Mary didnt mind. Once, Prudences stride had terrified hernow she saw the gentleness in those rough hands, the mischief in her eyes. She was their shield.
No letters. No death notice. Mary grew stronger, nursing John, mastering chores. Prudence said, «No news is good news.»
Victory came. Still no word. Then one summer day, John stumbled into a soldiers legs. The man lifted him, smiling. «Show me your home.»
Michaels heart pounded as he carried his son. At the doorstep, Prudence wailed; Mary buried her face in his chest. «We never doubted you.»
«I couldnt write,» he said. «Scouting missions.»
Prudence watched her familyhappiness made flesh. *This*, she thought, *is what joy feels like. She had carried them through the storm, and now she stood within the calm, her calloused hands finally at rest. The cradle rocker creaked under her touch as she hummed a lullabyrough, tender, true. No more waiting. No more fear. Just the steady breath of her son, her daughter, her home.
