**Diary Entry 12th June**
It was the day of Lydia the postwomans weddingif you could even call it that. More a day of bitter sorrow than celebration. The whole village had gathered outside the parish hall, not to rejoice but to pass judgment. There stood our Lydia, slender as a reed in a plain white dress shed stitched herself, her face pale, eyes wide and frightened yet stubborn. And beside herher groom, Stephen. Folks called him Convict behind his back. Hed returned a year prior from prison. No one knew exactly what hed done, but the rumours were dark enough. Tall, brooding, with a scar running down his cheek, he kept to himself in his grandfathers tumbledown cottage on the outskirts, taking the grimmest jobs no one else would touch.
And here was our quiet Lydia, an orphan raised by her aunt, marrying him.
When the registrar pronounced them husband and wife with a dry, You may congratulate the newlyweds, not a soul stirred. The silence was so thick you could hear a crow caw from the elm tree. Then Lydias cousin, Paulwhod treated her like a sister after her parents diedstepped forward. He fixed her with an icy glare and hissed loud enough for all to hear:
Youre no sister of mine. From today, I dont know you. Shaming our family, tying yourself to filth. Dont you dare set foot in my home again.
He spat at Stephens feet, turned on his heel, and shouldered through the crowd like an icebreaker. Her aunt followed, lips pinched.
Lydia stood motionless, a single tear tracing her cheek. She didnt wipe it away. Stephens jaw clenched, fists tighteningI thought hed lunge at Paul. Instead, he took Lydias hand gently, as if afraid shed break, and murmured, Lets go home.
And they walked. Just the two of them, against the whole village. Himtall and grim; herfrail in her little white dress. Poisoned whispers trailed them. My heart ached watching them. *Lord, how much strength will it take for them to endure this?*
It had started small, as these things do. Lydia delivered postquiet, unassuming. One autumn evening, a pack of strays cornered her near the edge of the village. She screamed, dropped her bag, letters scattering in the mud. Then Stephen appeared. No shouting, no stick-wavingjust a step toward the lead dog, a low growl of words, and the brute slunk away, tail tucked. He gathered the sodden letters, handed them back. She whispered, Thank you. He just grunted and walked off.
But after that, she watched him differently. Not with fear, but curiosity. She noticed what others ignored: how he fixed old Marys fence without being asked, rescued a neighbours calf from the river, tucked a freezing kitten into his coat. He hid his kindness like a secret. And Lydia, lonely at heart, saw it.
They met by the far well at duskhim silent, her sharing scraps of news. Once, he brought her a wild orchid from the marshes, dangerous to reach. That was the moment she was lost.
When she told her family shed marry him, the uproar was deafening. Her aunt wept; Paul swore to break Stephens bones. But she stood firm. Hes good, she insisted. You just dont know him.
Life was hard. Few would hire Stephen. They scraped by on odd jobs, Lydias meagre wages. Yet their cottage, though weathered, was always clean and oddly warm. He built her bookshelves, mended the porch, planted flowers beneath the window. And each evening, when he returned filthy and exhausted, shed set a bowl of hot soup before him. Their silence held more love than any grand words.
The village shunned them. Shopkeepers shortchanged Lydia; children hurled stones at their windows. Paul crossed the street to avoid them.
Then came the fire.
A windy night, flames licking Pauls barn, then his house. The village scrambled with buckets, but the blaze roared higher. Pauls wife screamedtheir little girl, Maisie, was still inside. Paul fought to rush in, but men held him back. Youll burn, fool!
Then Stephen barrelled through. He doused himself with water and vanished into the inferno.
An eternity passed. The roof collapsed. No one expected him to return.
But from the smoke staggered a figureStephen, clothes smouldering, carrying Maisie wrapped in a wet blanket. He collapsed, handing her to the women. The child lived. Stephen didnt.
When he woke in the clinic, Paul was on his knees beside him, gripping his hand, pressing his forehead to it. No wordsjust silent, shaking remorse.
After that, the dam broke. Men repaired their cottage. Paul became Stephens shadow, helping with chores, bringing hay for their goat. His wife, Helen, baked pies, left cream on their doorstep. The scars Stephen bore were no longer marks of shame but medals.
A year later, Lydia bore a daughterMaisie, her mothers mirror. Then a son, Johnny, Stephens image without the scar. The house rang with laughter. The brooding Convict was the gentlest fathertossing giggling children in the air, carving wooden toys with rough, careful hands.
I remember visiting once, finding Stephen crouched over Johnnys tiny bicycle, Paul steadying the wheel. The boys played in the sandpit. No anger, no pastjust quiet work and childrens voices.
Lydia stepped out with cold cider, smiling at mea smile of hard-won joy. Shed been right. Shed followed her heart against the world and found everything.
Now their cottage blooms with geraniums. Grey streaks Stephens hair as he teaches Johnny to chop wood. Maisie, nearly grown, helps hang sun-warmed laundry. They laugh, easy and bright.
*Funny, isnt it? Walls of fear melt like spring snow. All it takes is one act of courageand time.*
