Blood Calls Against Fate
—Alice, as your husband, I set one condition. Forget this madness with that young fool. But I beg you—give me a son,— my voice trembled, pitiful as a beaten dog.
—Very well, Edward, I’ll try,— my wife replied uncertainly, her eyes avoiding mine. The agreement came to her like a knife to the heart.
Alice and I had raised three daughters: thirteen-year-old Charlotte, ten-year-old Emily, and nine-year-old Victoria. Where this twenty-two-year-old charmer, Oliver, had come from, I couldn’t fathom. He stormed into my life like a hurricane, tearing everything apart. Grief, not years, gnaws at the soul, turning hair grey before its time.
Our girls were bewildered. Their mother, once warm and attentive, had become a cold spectre. She was too polished, almost ghostly, as though her spirit lingered elsewhere. The house descended into chaos—dust gathered in corners, dishes piled in the sink, and I grew more irritable, lost in desperation to bring her back.
It began a year earlier. Alice had taken the girls to Lake Windermere for a holiday. She returned distant, distracted. Her answers were vague, her gaze hollow, her embraces absent. I sensed something amiss but stayed silent. Admitting her betrayal would have been too painful. I hoped time would set things right. And time was merciless.
—Papa, Mum was always holding hands with Oliver,— Emily blurted one day, unaware of the wound she inflicted.
—Tell me everything, darling,— I paled but kept my voice steady.
—At the lake, that man was always with us. Mum laughed at his jokes, and he walked us to the station. Handsome, stylish, younger than you,— her words shattered me.
Impossible. Just a fleeting fling, a holiday romance. Could this vain boy truly be smitten with a thirty-five-year-old woman, mother of three? Were there not enough pretty young things seeking adventure by the lakeshore? But I was wrong. Alice’s love for Oliver proved stronger than promises, children, or my despair. Our marriage crumbled, and with it, my peace.
Alice did bear a son, William. But he never called me father. I saw him only twice. Oliver raised him. Within a year, Alice took William and vanished into her lover’s life forever. I was left with three daughters, and the world turned bleak. I longed to end it all, but frozen as my heart was, love for my girls still flickered.
—Papa, since Mum left, we’ll cook, clean, and wash your shirts,— Victoria dabbed my tears with her handkerchief, trying to console me.
I wept openly for the first time, overwhelmed. Once the storm passed, I steadied myself. I had three little women in my care. I taught them to cook, to clean, though sometimes I snapped, scolding them unfairly. Yet the house grew warm again. Charlotte loved scrubbing dishes, Emily swept the floors, Victoria waged war on dust. I cooked as best I could.
Alice visited occasionally, but each time poisoned the air. The girls wept after she left, and so I asked her to stay away.
—Edward, I love our daughters. Would you have me abandon them for your pride?— she protested.
—Not for me, Alice. For them. If you love them, let them heal. When they’re grown, they’ll decide if they need you,— I forced steel into my words.
—Perhaps you’re right. I weep too, after seeing them. Goodbye, Edward,— she kissed each girl and vanished.
As teenagers, the girls despised their mother and William. They envied their brother, who had a mother to hold him, who doted on him. But time softened them. When Charlotte, Emily, and Victoria married, their fury faded to bitter sorrow. Charlotte and Emily each had three children; Victoria, two. All vowed to be better mothers, as if proving they’d never repeat Alice’s mistakes.
I live alone now. There were other women, but I called each one Alice. Who could bear that? Memory kept only one. I’ve made peace with solitude.
Alice passed at sixty-three. A week before, she came to me. Tears traced her cheeks as she begged forgiveness, confessing regrets, even complaining of William. He had shocked her, changing his name to Willow, becoming a woman after surgeries. She left a will that sent Oliver to hospital. A wealthy businessman, he’d signed everything over to her—foolishly trusting. Yet Alice left nothing to him. Everything went to our daughters and Willow. Why? Perhaps blood proved stronger. A buried love for the girls she’d left behind.
When they inherited, they offered it to me:
—Papa, take it. You’ve earned this.
I refused. It burned my hands. I signed it all to my grandchildren.
Oliver declared bankruptcy, pleading with my daughters. Their reply was cold:
—You stole our mother and our childhood. Go in peace.
Willow, once William, married a Frenchman, Pierre. They live in Paris, planning to adopt. Victoria writes to her, sharing news. Charlotte and Emily refuse to acknowledge her.
This all happened in a quiet Yorkshire town, where I’d moved my family, dreaming of a better life.
