**A Stepmothers Love**
Not long ago, the wedding bells had rung. Not long ago, the family had gatheredsinging, dancing, laughingand no one could have guessed it would be their last meeting. Only the grooms mother, Margaret, sat scowling in the corner. She hadnt taken a liking to her sons delicate, slender bride. «Pretty enough, I suppose,» she muttered, «but what good is beauty if she cant lift a bundle of firewood or carry a bucket from the well? Ive worked my fingers to the bone my whole life, hoped my lad would marry someone strong, not some wisp of a girl who can barely hold a pitchfork.» Margaret stewed in her bitterness, and her disdain didnt escape young Emily.
William soothed his new wife but warned herhis mother wouldnt go easy on her. She despised frailty. To her, strength lay in broad shoulders, rough hands, swift strides. Shed once knocked her drunken father into bed with one shove. When she harnessed a horse, even the stable lads stepped back. She walked behind the plough with a straight back, the blade cutting deep, glossy furrows in her wake. Come haymaking, shed stack a rick in an hour while others fumbled half the day.
God had given her a mans strength, it seemed, and taken a womans softness in exchange. Emilys own mother hadnt wanted to let her marry, not under Margarets thumb. They lived close, and Sarah had often marvelled at Margarets brute forcehow shed hoist roof beams alone, plow fields single-handed, build stacks twice as fast as any man. What sort of daughter-in-law could ever please her?
But Emily wouldnt listen. «I wont lose the man I love over Margarets temper,» she thought. «Shell soften with age, dandle grandchildren while William and I make our own way.»
No one knew war loomed, that joy would soon turn to sorrow. Six months after the wedding, it came. Those months felt like a trial. William doted on Emily, which only irked Margaret. «What sort of man fusses over his wife like a nursemaid?» she grumbled. «No backbone, just like his drunkard father.»
Margaret had been wed to a widowera timid, sodden man with a leaky thatch roof and a scrawny cow. Her own mother had pushed the match, desperate to escape hunger. «Better a widows life than spinsterhood,» shed said. The groom barely glanced at Margarets rough-hewn face before muttering, «Shell do, I suppose.»
For weeks, neither spoke. Only little William clung to her skirts, smiling, reaching for her. In time, she became a capable wifebut never a loving one. The boy, thoughshe adored him. She taught him patience, discipline, kissed his crown when he obeyed. When he misbehaved, the strap came down hard. She always wept afterward, begging forgiveness, and hed hug her tight.
William grew kind, handsome, devoted. When his father died, neither mourned much. Margaret cupped her sons face and said, «I never wanted to be a stepmother. I wanted to be your mum.» Her smilerare, tendertransformed her stern features. «Youll marry strong someday, build a new house. Save me a corner, eh? Someones got to keep your wife in line.»
William laughed, thinking, *My brave, beautiful mother. Ill never treat you as Father didsilent, shadow-like, never enough.*
Time flew. The wedding passed. Then came the war. Margaret stood stiff as William marched away, then crumpled, wailing into her apron. Emily laid a hand on her shoulder, weeping too. «Dont comfort me,» Margaret rasped. «Pray God keeps him safe. Hes my life. Without him, Ive none left.»
The waiting wore them down. Margaret scoffed at Emilys frailtythe half-buckets of water, the feeble kneading of dough, the way she struggled to milk the cow. «Useless girl,» shed mutter. But there was no maliceonly fear.
One morning, Margaret noticed Emily nibbling pickles, pale as chalk. She knew the signs. Hunger gnawed at them all, though Margaret had hidden flour, sugar, salt in the loft. War cared nothing for her preparations.
Emily weakened by the day. Margaret pressed food on herrye bread slathered with butter, salted cucumbers, strong tea. «Eat,» she ordered. «If you cant work, at least sit still.»
William wrote often, always beginning, *»Dearest Mother and my Emily.»* Margaret would kiss the paper, press it to her chest, then sob. She made Emily swear not to mention the baby. «Im strong, and I still lost mine. Youre too frail. Wait till its born.»
The letters dwindled. Margaret knelt nightly, begging, *»Take my strength, Lord. Give it to my boy. Forgive me for hiding this from himIve no faith in Emilys will.»*
No word came. They hid their tears, telling themselves, *Tomorrow. Tomorrow.* Margaret withered, her broad frame gaunt, her spine bowed. Emily watched her survive on crusts and milk before trudging to the farm.
Then labour struck. A gale howled as Emily cried out. The midwife lived miles away. Margaret hitched the horse, bundled Emily into the cart, and drove through the storm. «Save them,» she begged the midwife.
Five hours, life and death wrestled. Then a crya son, strong and squalling. Emily, bloodless and faint, survived.
Margaret, grey and shaken, stood like a scolded child when Emilys mother came. But Emily met her gaze*I stay with her. She saved us.*
Margaret bloomed anew. She rocked the babe, cut up her late husbands shirts for swaddling. «No use saving linen for my shroud,» she told Emily. «They judge deeds, not dress, in heaven.»
Still no word from William. Emily grew stronger, milk plentiful, her hands surer at chores. «No news is good news,» Margaret said.
Thenvictory. Soldiers trickled home. One summer day, little Thomas stumbled into a strangers legs. The man lifted him, heart pounding. «Show me your home, lad.»
William staggered to the cottage. Margaret wailed; Emily buried her face in his chest. «We never doubted you,» she whispered.
«I knew,» he said. «Our boy greeted me. Mustve known his dad was coming.»
Margaret watched themher family. Happiness wasnt just a feeling. It was something you could hold.
**Lesson:** Love wears many facessome rough, some gentle. But when tested, true hearts show their strength.
