Rattle of an old bike.
— Stephen,
Evelyn said, looking out the window.
— Comes every evening. Chops wood, helps around. And keeps looking. Has she returned?
Sophia approached the window.
In the streetlight, she saw the familiar figure. Still lean, but seemed even more wiry and fit. Stephen stood at the gate, not daring to enter, but not leaving.
As if sensing tonight wasn’t like usual.
— Call him in,
Sophia said quietly. Evelyn looked at her daughter attentively.
— You sure?
— He…
— I know,
Sophia nodded.
— Call him.
Evelyn threw on a shawl and went to the porch.
A moment later, Sophia heard:
— Stephen! Come in, have some tea!
The gate creaked. Steps on the porch, cautious, as if afraid to scare luck.
Then the door opened, and he entered, ears burning, embarrassed, but with such hope in his eyes that Sophia’s breath caught.
— Hello, Sophie!
He said, and in those two words was all his love, simple and unconditional as sunrise.
— Hello, Stephen!
She answered, and suddenly all words she’d prepared, all explanations and apologies, seemed unnecessary.
They sat at the table in three, Evelyn, Sophia, and Stephen. Drank tea with jam, talked trivia—harvest, weather, how Stephen fixed the shed roof. Ordinary rural talk, but with such warmth, such sense of home, that Sophia wanted to cry.
When Stephen prepared to leave, she offered to see him to the gate. In the frosty air, their breath turned to steam clouds. Stars shone overhead, bright as you never see in the city.
— I’m glad you’re back!
Stephen said, looking into her eyes.
— Very glad!
Sophia nodded.
— Me too, Steve! Me too!
He paused, then said what he’d probably said mentally hundreds of times these months.
— I waited for you! And always will! In his words no reproach or demand, only statement of fact, simple and unshakable as those stars above.
— I know!
Sophia answered.
— And that’s… That’s worth everything!
She didn’t tell him the truth, not about Victor, not about the child in her womb.
Not now. But some part of her already knew she’d tell, she’d trust. Stephen left, and Sophia stood long at the gate, gazing at the night sky.
A month ago, her life seemed ruined, ahead only loneliness and hardships. Now, looking at stars over her hometown, she felt peace and hope for the first time in ages. Days flowed in their course.
Sophia helped her mother with chores, though Evelyn tried to spare her heavy work, as if sensing her condition. Stephen came every evening, silently helped with man’s work, dined with them, and before leaving talked long with Sophia about everything and nothing. With each day, she understood clearer that with this man she was good and calm.
That his love wasn’t flame burning everything around, but quiet fire you can warm by in the fiercest cold. Two weeks after return, Sophia decided. After dinner, when Stephen was leaving, she asked him to stay.
— I need to tell you something,
She said when they were alone in the dim entry.
— Something important.
Stephen looked at her seriously, without a smile.
— I’m listening, Sophie. And she told. All.
About unhappy marriage, meetings with Victor, love that arose between them. Then, deep breath, she said:
— I’m expecting a child, Steve. From him. From Victor.
Words hung in the raw air of the entry.
Stephen stood motionless, only his fingers clenched into fists, jaw muscles twitching. Sophia dared not raise her eyes, fearing to see contempt or anger in his gaze. She suddenly realized with utter clarity how cruel what she’d just done was.
Told a man who’d loved her all his life about her love for another. But what happened next shook her to the core. Stephen stepped forward.
His roughened hands gently took her palms. She raised her gaze and saw in his eyes not fury, not disgust, but quiet, all-consuming pain. And understanding.
— Will he come for you?
Asked Stephen. Sophia didn’t know what to answer. Victor promised, swore he’d come.
But deep in her soul, doubt had sprouted. Had she invented this love, was it just a way to escape the cage of marriage with Dennis?
— He should come,
She answered finally. He promised.
Stephen nodded, accepting those words as truth.
— I won’t hold you,
He said.
— Won’t stand in your happiness’s way.
Sophia felt something quiver inside. This simple man, unread in classics, unknowing of refined city manners, possessed greatness of soul money can’t buy.
— Forgive me,
She whispered.
— For everything.
— You’ve nothing to forgive for.
He released her hands and stepped back.
— It’s your life, Sophie. Your choice. In that moment, something flipped in Sophia’s soul.
Like wind from the lake bringing revelation she dared not think of.
— And if… Words came hard, heart pounding madly. If I didn’t wait for him.
If I stayed here, with you… Stephen froze, not daring to believe what he heard.
— Would you…
— Agree?
She continued.
— Accept me? And the child? A stranger’s child?
For a long instant, he looked at her with a gaze that took Sophia’s breath. Then said with that simplicity that was his nature’s essence.
— For me, he won’t be a stranger. If it’s your child, he’ll be mine too.
And in those words was so much truth, so much strength, that Sophia understood. This is real love. Not passion flared in city secret meetings, not obsession with beauty, but calm certainty of a man ready to accept his beloved as she is.
Two weeks later, in the small town church smelling of wax and incense, Sophia and Stephen exchanged rings. The bride was pale but determined. The groom calm and sure.
Evelyn stood nearby, crossing herself and furtively wiping a tear. Town buzzed with gossip. Ran from rich husband, returned not empty-handed, but with addition «Does Stephen know?» or fooled the fool.
But Stephen was deaf to whispers. He built a new bathhouse, strengthened the roof, installed a stove. Prepared for the child’s birth with such joyful care, as if it were his own firstborn.
Evelyn watched these changes with mixed feelings. She was glad for her daughter’s return, her new marriage to a reliable man. But couldn’t help worrying.
Something in Sophia’s eyes, deep, hidden sadness, made the mother anxious. As if her daughter made the decision not from heart’s call, but despair, fear of the future. One evening, when Sophia had gone to bed, and Stephen still tinkered in the yard, Evelyn sat on her daughter’s bed edge.
— Tell me the truth,
She asked, looking at her daughter’s gaunt face.
— Do you love him?
Sophia was silent long, gathering thoughts. Then answered, quietly but firmly.
— You can’t not love Stephen, Mom. He’s the best person I’ve met.
— That’s not an answer,
Evelyn shook her head.
— Do you love him? Sophia turned to the wall.
— I’ll learn. In time.
Evelyn sighed. She understood. Her daughter chose a safe shore, quiet harbor.
Stephen would never hurt her, never betray, never reproach. But would her bright, rebellious girl be happy in this calm, measured existence? Gradually, Sophia began to thaw. Her laughter sounded more often, movements softer, forgotten sparkle in her eyes.
Evelyn watched these changes with hope. Maybe it’ll all work out. Maybe her daughter will learn to value not bright passion flame, but even warmth of true devotion.
But something gnawed at Evelyn inside. Anxiety, premonition that kept her from sleeping peacefully at night. Like clouds gathering on the horizon, like trouble lurking around the corner, waiting its moment.
And inside Sophia grew a new life, stubborn, strong. Sometimes, alone, she talked to the child under her heart. Told him about city and town, about Stephen and Victor, about decisions she’d had to make.
— I don’t know if I did right,
She whispered, stroking her belly.
— But I promise you’ll be loved. Whatever happens, baby, you’ll be loved.
One day, early spring, a letter came to town. Addressed to Sophia, no return address. Handwriting unfamiliar, sharp, angular letters, deeply pressed into paper, as if written in anger.
Sophia opened the envelope alone at home. Ran her eyes over the short lines and paled, leaning against the wall to not fall. «I know where you are,» the letter said.
«Know you’re expecting, and from whom.» «Think I didn’t guess?» «He knows too. Don’t hope he’ll come for you.
He just got engaged to the prosecutor’s daughter. Career, you know, more important than country sluts. Hope you two will be happy, you and your new husband, picking up scraps from another’s table.»
Sophia burned the letter in the stove, showing it to no one. But something in her broke that day. Something important and fragile that had kept her afloat.
She seemed to withdraw into herself. Became absent-minded, detached. Stephen and Evelyn noticed the changes but attributed them to approaching birth, natural fears of a future mother. And Sophia more often stood at the window, gazing at the road stretching to the horizon.
She no longer waited for Victor. No, that hope was done. She just looked at the road, as if trying to see her fate sprawled there, beyond town.
April was capricious. Now flooding town with rains, now delighting with gentle sun, now scaring with sudden frosts. Sophia moved around the house with difficulty, her belly huge like a ripe watermelon.
Evelyn fussed around her daughter, preparing for birth, boiling sheets, sewing diapers from old shirts, gathering herbs for decoctions.
— Soon now!
She said, looking at her daughter with worry and tenderness.
— Any day!
Sophia nodded, stroking her belly.
The child inside was restless. Constantly kicked, turned, as if eager to see the world. Sometimes at night, unable to sleep from back pain, Sophia talked to it, her unborn firstborn.
— Quiet, quiet!
She whispered.
— A little more, and you’ll see the sun. And grandma.
And Stephen, who’ll be a real father to you. About Victor she tried not to think. Since receiving that hateful letter from Dennis, Sophia banned herself from recalling city life.
It seemed that was the past, alien, distant, belonging to another woman. Now only town, Stephen, child under heart, and endless gratitude for this chance to start anew. But sometimes, in the border state between sleep and wake, Victor came to her.
Not the mocking image of the prosecutor’s daughter’s fiancé from Dennis’s letter, but the real one, with quiet voice, attentive eyes, gentle touches. And then Sophia woke with wet cheeks from tears, with a sense of loss that neither Stephen’s care nor fuss around the future child could drown. One evening, when April wind rattled curtains, and Evelyn prepared dinner, Sophia felt the first contraction.
Sharp pain pierced her lower back, radiating down, making her bend. She cried out, grabbing the table edge. Evelyn turned, a shadow of worry crossing her face.
Started? Sophia nodded, unable to say a word. The pain retreated as suddenly as it came, leaving strange emptiness.
— Too early,
Evelyn muttered, approaching her daughter.
— Five weeks to term. Lie down, rest. I’ll send Stephen for the midwife.
Sophia obediently lay on the bed, made with clean linen. Strange calm descended on her. Just yesterday she’d feared birth to trembling, to dark spots before eyes, to clenched fists.
And now fear receded, leaving only clarity and resolve. Stephen rushed in minutes, breathless with sweat beads on forehead. He darted to Sophia, but Evelyn intercepted him at the door.
— Not now. Run for Agatha. Tell her.
Waters haven’t broken, but contractions started. Stephen nodded, threw a last glance at Sophia, and ran from the house. Evelyn bent over her daughter, placed a cool palm on her burning forehead.
— Bear it, dear. Woman’s lot is to bear. The second contraction came sooner than expected.
Sophia clenched her teeth not to scream. She remembered town women’s stories about birth. How important to breathe right, not push too early, save strength for the decisive moment.
Agatha, a wiry old lady with eyes clear as a young one’s, came when contractions quickened. Examining Sophia, she shook her head.
— Long birth it’ll be. First are always long.
And waiting began.
Stephen was sent from the house. Men have no place near a birthing woman, such was the age-old town law. He went to a neighbor but came to the window every hour, peering in with mute question. Evelyn shook her head each time.
— Not yet, hasn’t given birth. Night fell on town. Candles burned in the room, casting fanciful shadows on walls.
Sophia thrashed on the bed, gasping from pain. Contractions rolled one after another, no respite. Face paled, lips bitten to blood, sweat streamed down temples.
— Something’s wrong,
Evelyn whispered, looking at Agatha.
— Too long.
The old woman frowned, examining Sophia again.
Baby’s large. And positioned wrong.
— Should go to hospital, but how in this hour?
Evelyn clenched fists.
In the county hospital, twenty-five miles from town, was an ambulance. But how call it here, when roads were impassable for cars? How get her daughter to the county seat on broken roads, when every movement caused such pain? How?
— Stephen!
She cried, running to the porch.
— Harness the horse, need to go to county seat.
But it was late. When Evelyn returned to the room, Sophia screamed aloud, clutching the bed’s iron rails. Waters broke, blood appeared.
— Hold on, girl!
Agatha chanted, rubbing her belly with herb infusions.
— Help the baby, don’t give up!
Sophia propped up, last effort of will, last movement. Her eyes sought the child.
— Give! Me!
She whispered. Agatha brought the swaddled newborn.
Sophia touched trembling fingers to the tiny face. Smiled strange, otherworldly smile.
— Emily!
She said clearly.
She’ll be called Emily. Then her head fell back on the pillow, hand limply dropped on the sheet. The paramedic rushed to her, trying to find pulse, do artificial respiration.
But it was late.
— Bleeding!
He said to Evelyn, not looking her in eyes.
— Lost too much blood. I couldn’t do anything.
Evelyn didn’t hear him. She looked at her daughter, so calm, so beautiful even now, with waxy face and frozen smile.
Looked and couldn’t believe her girl, her rebellious, bright Sophia, would never open her eyes, never laugh, never say «Mom, forgive me.» The baby’s cry tore her from stupor. Tiny girl, her granddaughter, all that remained of her daughter, cried, demanding attention, demanding life.
— What have you done?
Evelyn whispered, gazing at her daughter’s body.
— What have you done to me, daughter?
The door flung open. Stephen stood on the threshold.
One glance at the bed, the motionless body of Sophia, the crying infant in Agatha’s arms, and he understood everything. His face twisted as from a blow, knees buckled. He collapsed by the bed, grabbed his wife’s lifeless hand, pressed it to his lips.
— No,
He repeated, rocking side to side.
— No, no, no.
Evelyn approached him, placed a hand on his shoulder.
— We have a daughter, Stephen. Sophia named her Emily. He raised his head.
Tears froze in his eyes, which he couldn’t, didn’t know how to cry. Looked at the baby Agatha held.
— Give her to me,
He said hoarsely.
Agatha handed him the bundle. Stephen awkwardly took the infant, pressed to his chest. Tiny Emily quieted, as if feeling she was safe.
Stephen looked long at the newborn, her red face, wrinkled fists, dark fuzz on head. Then raised his gaze to Evelyn. And in that gaze was such determination, such strength, that the old woman’s heart ached.
— I’ll raise her,
He said.
— Be father and mother to her.
Evelyn silently nodded.
Then approached the bed to close her daughter’s eyes. While doing this last motherly act, her head swirled with thoughts of strange fate that takes a daughter and immediately gives a granddaughter. That the newborn was full-term, large, though by Sophia and Stephen’s marriage terms shouldn’t be.
She knew, guessed the child wasn’t Stephen’s. And knew Stephen guessed too.
But also saw with what tenderness he held the infant, with what pain and love he looked at his dead wife. Why truth if it only wounds? Thought Evelyn, covering her daughter’s face with clean towel. Sophia took her secret with her.
Let it stay so. Town funeral was simple but decent. Sophia was buried in the small cemetery, under an old oak.
People came to say goodbye. Even those who’d judged her for city life, divorce, quick marriage. Death erases all grudges.
Evelyn stood by the grave with petrified face. Beside her Stephen, holding swaddled Emily. They didn’t cry.
Neither the old woman who’d lost her only daughter, nor the young man burying his beloved. Tears would come later, alone, in night silence. Now needed to hold on.
For the tiny being demanding care, attention, love. A few weeks later, sorting her daughter’s things to free the chest for Emily’s dowry, which needed collecting from infancy, Evelyn came across a diary. Worn notebook in oilcloth cover, hidden at suitcase bottom among winter clothes.
First, Evelyn set the diary aside, unwilling to invade her daughter’s personal space even after death. But something—curiosity, motherly worry, or just desire to hear the departed’s voice once more—made her return to the find. Evening, when Stephen went to neighbor to help with roof, and Emily slept, lulled by song, Evelyn sat at table and opened the diary.
Sophia’s letters, angular, decisive, danced before her eyes, blurring with unbidden tears. «Never thought I’d keep a diary like a schoolgirl,» Sophia wrote in first entry, dated her city arrival day. «But I need to talk to someone, even on paper.»
Evelyn flipped pages, diving into her daughter’s secret life, her thoughts, doubts, loneliness amid people. And amid it all, lines that burned the old woman’s heart like acid, entries full of confusion, passion, guilt, fear. Sophia’s story of secret meetings, stolen hours of happiness, tormenting doubts.
Finally, entry about pregnancy. Child under heart. From Victor, I know it.
Can’t tell Dennis. He’ll either kill me or ruin Victor’s life. I know what his jealousy can do.
Victor says we’ll leave. He’ll take me and the child. We’ll be happy.
But I’m afraid to believe. Too many promises I’ve heard in life. Evelyn read, not noticing tears flowing down wrinkled cheeks.
Daughter seemed to speak from beyond, trusting what she hadn’t dared say in life. Last entry made shortly before birth. Stephen, best person I’ve met in life.
He knows about the child. Knows it’s not his. I told him everything.
About Victor, our plans, my decision to return to town and wait. Thought he’d hate me, but he just said, I’ll be by your side. Whatever happens.
I don’t deserve such love. Evelyn closed the notebook, stunned by what she read. Stephen knew.
All this time knew the child wasn’t his. Knew. And still married Sophia, still accepted another’s child as his.