Everyone in the village knew and disliked George for his unbearable temper. He was married to Lucy, a quiet woman with her own struggles—she couldn’t have children. They’d been married twelve years, but no little ones came along.
Then, out of nowhere, Lucy passed away. Her mother had noticed her daughter looked unwell lately but Lucy never complained.
“Love, you don’t look right these days,” her mum would say when Lucy visited.
“It’s nothing, Mum. Just a bit weak, dizzy sometimes. I’ll rest and be fine. Don’t fuss.”
Lucy never moaned, especially not to George. He couldn’t stand it if she had so much as a headache.
“Don’t play the victim. Women always find something to whinge about. Too lazy to work, that’s your trouble. No one pities you here,” he’d snap.
A year after the funeral, George lived alone, but the thought of remarrying nagged at him. He wasn’t used to solitude, even if he acted like a lone wolf. He eyed the village women.
“Needs to be someone without kids,” he muttered. “Don’t want another man’s baggage. Most my age are single mums. Might have to go younger—not that any’ll want me.”
He knew his temper put people off. No friends, no charm. Still, he set his sights on Emily—plain as a sparrow, hard-working, and meek.
One day, he “accidentally” bumped into her.
“Emily, come here,” he barked as she passed his cottage.
She looked up, wary, but approached.
“Hello,” she said softly.
“Listen,” he grunted. “I’ve been watchin’ you. Fancy marryin’ me? I’m alone, got a tidy homestead. We’d live well. Have kids—need heirs, don’t I?”
“O-oh! I don’t know… I’d have to ask my mum,” Emily stammered, blushing.
“Ask then. I’ll stop by tonight.”
At home, Emily blurted, “Mum, I think I’m getting married.”
“What? To who? You’ve not even got a sweetheart!”
“George is coming to propose.”
“Oh, love, he’s years older, and that temper! Folks whisper he worked his first wife to the grave—or worse. Think hard before tying yourself to that.”
“But who else will have me? I’m not getting younger. Maybe the gossip’s just that—gossip.”
Emily married him. The village talked—some pitied her (“Poor girl, he’s a brute”), others reckoned George got lucky (“A meek wife’ll obey and work without complaint”).
And she did. George clashed with everyone, scowled at his mother-in-law, and barely let Emily visit home.
“He’s a tyrant, plain as day,” her mum fretted when Emily sneaked over.
“It’s alright, Mum. I’ll manage. He grumbles, I stay quiet. Pray for patience, that’s all.”
“Oh, love, with that temper, you’ll be prayin’ the rest of your life,” her mum sighed, wiping tears.
But Emily bore two sons in five years. George might’ve loved them—in his way. He roared at them like they’d burned the barn down. She warned the boys, “Steer clear of your dad when he’s in a mood.”
They learned fast, playing outdoors to avoid him. As teens, they still dodged his rants.
“Where’re those layabouts? Should be helpin’! You’ve turned ’em soft!” he’d bellow across the yard.
Emily tuned it out. Younger but wiser, she ran the home while George drank more, picking fights with the air itself.
The villagers pitied her. “How does she bear it?”
Time passed. The boys left for trade school in Manchester, then stayed for factory work. Rare visits home were tense.
“Mum, don’t take it hard—we just can’t stand Dad’s mouth,” the eldest said. “Once I’ve a place, you’ll come live with us.”
“No, son. My place is here. You visit when you can.”
They stayed with Gran instead, popping by like guests. George raged worse than ever.
“You’re all a burden!” his raspy, drink-slurred voice carried.
Sometimes Emily retorted, “You wanted marriage, wanted kids—what’s your problem now? And how much do you drink away?”
Big mistake. It only fueled him.
“How do you endure it?” her mum wept. “I’d have left years ago!”
“The boys need raising. I’m used to his noise.”
As the sons married and settled in town, George’s health failed. One morning, Emily found him on the floor—stroke, the doctor said.
The loud, bitter man became a silent lump in bed.
“Well, George,” she murmured, tucking him in, “you wanted peace. Now you’ve got it. Wanted to lie about all day? Here you go.”
Her mum crossed herself. “Careful what you wish for. Oh, love, why must you bear this?”
“I’ll manage. At least it’s quiet now.”
A year and a half later, George died without fanfare.
Eventually, Emily’s youngest son moved back with his family. She joined her mum in her twilight years—frail, but surrounded by love.
No one spoke much of George. Emily thanked God his temper skipped the boys. Grandkids brought her joy.
At last, her life settled into calm, steady rhythm.
