The Unwanted One Became Family
The eldest daughter, Olivia, led the charge against the outsider in their midst. Bitter, solitary, with a cutting tongue and a heavy stare, she had become a scourge to men by thirty—never satisfied with her husband or her lot in life. So when her brother brought home a wife, she was the first to tear her apart:
“Stranger.”
She spat the word like venom.
The younger sister, plump and cheerful Millie, stifled a giggle behind her hands. Their mother, Eleanor, stayed silent, but her pursed lips and sharp glare spoke volumes—she, too, despised the new bride. How could she not? Her only son, the family’s hope, had returned from service not with a degree or good fortune, but with a wife. A wife with no past, no kin, not a penny to her name. Rumors swirled—raised in care homes, perhaps, or drifting between strangers’ floors. Something was amiss. He brushed it off:
“We’ll make our way, Mum. Don’t fret.”
But who could laugh? What if she was a thief? Or worse—a con artist? The world was full of them these days.
From that moment, Eleanor lost sleep. Nights stretched long, her ears straining for the faintest rustle—was the “stranger” rifling through drawers? Her daughters only stoked the flames:
“Mum, you ought to hide the valuables. The furs, the rings. Or one morning we’ll wake, and she’ll be gone.”
They wore poor Tommy down:
“What sort of woman have you dragged in? No roots, no face, no grace!”
And yet, they endured. Eleanor’s home stood firm—a sturdy house, a sprawling garden, pigs and chickens beyond count. Work enough for three.
But Clara—as the bride was called—never complained. In the garden, with the livestock, in the kitchen, she worked silently, diligently, with quiet respect for the matriarch.
Yet Eleanor remained unmoved. A mother’s heart stayed shut. On the first day, she’d said coldly:
“Call me *Mrs. Wilkins*. I’ve daughters enough. You’re a stranger here.”
And so Clara did. Eleanor never softened—no first name, no kindness. Only:
“See to it.”
The sisters pounced at every misstep. A misplaced word, and the whispers coiled:
“Look, she’s back at the cabinets!”
Eleanor reined them in—not for Clara’s sake, but for order. The girl was no slacker. She bore the load alone. And though Eleanor fought it, something in her thawed.
It might have worked, had Tommy not taken to drink.
The shame ate at him—his mother and sisters carping, *”Who did you marry?”* Then Olivia fanned the flames, introducing a friend of hers. The downward spiral began. Longer absences, deeper binges.
The sisters crowed:
“Now the Stranger *will* leave.”
Clara withered, her light dimming. Yet she stayed.
Then—like thunder—she was pregnant. And Tommy demanded a divorce.
“Out of the question,” Eleanor snapped. *”I* didn’t choose your wife, but you married her—now *live* with it! If you want out, *you* go. Clara stays.”
For the first time in years, she’d spoken her name. The sisters fell silent.
Tommy erupted:
“I’m the man here—*I* decide!”
His mother met him coldly:
“A man? You’re *wearing* trousers. You’ll *be* a man when you raise that child with sense.”
Tommy slammed the door. Clara stayed. And she gave birth—to little Eva.
When Eleanor heard the name, she said nothing. Only her eyes glistened.
Tommy never returned. But his mother adored her granddaughter—gifts, sweets, all the love she’d withheld. To Clara? No blame. No forgiveness, either.
Ten years passed. The daughters married. The house emptied. Only Eleanor, Clara, and Eva remained.
Tommy vanished north. A widowed officer, steady and kind, began courting Clara. She refused—out of loyalty to her mother-in-law.
But the man was no fool. He came himself.
“I love Clara. I can’t live without her.”
Eleanor listened. Then:
“Then stay. But Eva won’t be dragged about. You live *here*.”
Neighbors gasped:
“She’s lost her mind! Threw out her son but lets the *stranger* bring in a man?”
Eleanor ignored them. Silent, proud.
Clara bore a second daughter—Kate. And Eleanor doted on them both. Though… what was Kate to her? *Nothing.* And yet, her heart disobeyed.
Then tragedy struck, unannounced. Clara fell gravely ill. Her husband crumbled, drowning in drink. Eleanor withdrew her savings, hauled Clara to specialists. It was no use.
One morning, Clara seemed better. She asked for broth. Eleanor slaughtered a chicken, boiled it down.
Clara couldn’t eat. She wept. And for the first time—so did Eleanor.
“Why leave *now*, when I’ve only just learned to love you?”
She wiped her tears.
“Don’t fear for the girls. I’ll *not* see them wronged.”
Clara died. Eleanor raised the girls alone.
Another decade passed. Eva married. Olivia and Millie arrived—older, childless.
Tommy, too, stumbled in—a failed marriage, a hangover in his veins. He saw his daughter—radiant.
“Never thought I’d have one so…”
Then he learned she called another *Dad*, and he snapped:
“*Your* fault, Mother! Letting some *stranger* take my place!”
Eleanor didn’t flinch.
“No, son. You were *never* a father. Just trousers—empty then, empty now.”
Tommy left. For good.
Eva bore a son. Named him after the man who’d raised her—*Alexander*.
They buried Eleanor beside Clara. Come spring, a silver birch sprouted between their graves. No one planted it. It just… wandered in. Like Clara once had. Was it farewell? Or forgiveness?
