The Call of Blood
«Ingrid, as your husband, I must set one condition,» I said, my voice trembling. «Lets forget this foolish affair with your lover. But I ask one thinggive me a son.» I had never felt so wretched.
«Very well, Mark. Ill try,» she replied hesitantly. The agreement weighed heavily on her.
…Ingrid and I had raised three daughters: twelve-year-old Emily, nine-year-old Charlotte, and eight-year-old Lily.
Where this twenty-year-old upstart, Oliver, came from, Ill never understand. He tore my life apart. As they say, its not age that wears you down, but sorrow.
The girls were bewildered. Their mother, once loving and attentive, had become distant, preoccupied. The house grew neglecteddust gathered in thick layers, dishes sat unwashed. I grew short-tempered, lost in thoughts of how to bring her back.
…It had begun six months earlier. A chance meeting on a cruise. Ingrid had taken the girls to the seaside and returned distracted, her mind elsewhere. She barely looked at me, rarely hugged the children. A gnawing suspicion took rootsomething wasnt right.
«Daddy, Mum spent the whole holiday holding hands with Oliver,» Charlotte blurted one day.
«Tell me more, sweetheart,» I said, forcing calm into my voice.
«He was always with us. Made Mum laugh a lot. Even saw us off at the station. Handsome, dressed smartly. Younger than you.» Her words shattered me.
It couldnt be seriousjust a fleeting summer romance. Surely this young rake wouldnt throw everything away for a woman of thirty with three children? But I was wrong.
Ingrid and Oliver were in love, bound for life. No pleas, no children, no guilt could save our marriage. My peace was lost forever.
She did give me a sonWilliam. But he never saw me as his father. I barely laid eyes on him before Ingrid took him and left for good. I was left with my girls. The emptiness was unbearable.
«Daddy, if Mummys gone, well take care of you,» Lily whispered, wiping my tears. It was the only time I let myself break.
Grief gave way to duty. I taught my girls to keep houseEmily loved washing up, Charlotte swept floors, Lily chased dust. I managed the cooking. Ingrid visited occasionally, but her presence only reopened wounds. Eventually, I asked her to stay away.
«Mark, I love them! Youd keep me from my own children?» she protested.
«No, Ingrid. For their sake. If you love them, let them heal first.»
She agreed, kissing them goodbye before leaving for good.
…As teenagers, the girls despised their mother and William. I think they envied himhe had her undivided love. But time softened their hearts.
When they marriedEmily and Charlotte with four children each, Lily with threethey became devoted mothers, determined to be everything Ingrid hadnt been.
I lived alone. There were women over the years, but I called them all Ingrid. None stayed. The past couldnt be rewritten.
…At sixty, Ingrid passed away. Days before, she came to me, weeping, begging forgiveness. She spoke bitterly of Williamhed transitioned to become Willow, finding happiness as a woman.
Then came the will. Oliver, a wealthy businessman, had signed everything to Ingrid. Yet she left him nothingeverything went to the girls and Willow.
The girls offered their inheritance to me. «You deserve it, Dad.» I refused. It burned my hands. I passed it to the grandchildren.
Oliver went bankrupt, pleading for help. The girls turned him away. «You stole our mother, our childhood. Now live with it.»
Willow married an Italian, Roberto. They plan to adopt. Lily keeps in touch, but Emily and Charlotte want nothing to do with her.
This was our life in England, where Id brought my family seeking better fortunes.
Lifes lesson? Blood calls louder than regret. Love, even when buried, never truly fades. But some wounds never healthey just teach us how to bear them.
