Patience, Only Patience
“Mum, Dad, happy anniversary—happy golden wedding!” exclaimed their daughter joyfully as she stepped into the cottage garden with her husband and children. “We wish you as many more years together, full of love and happiness.”
“Thank you, love, though that might be a stretch,” chuckled Stephen. “But we’ll do our best to carry on.”
Fifty years of marriage—half a century—had slipped by for Theresa and Stephen. It seemed an eternity, yet when they looked back, the years had flown by in the blink of an eye. Many could boast such a milestone, but not everyone was so fortunate. Life was hard, shadowed by dark days and sorrow.
Were Theresa and Stephen truly happy? Perhaps the weary smile of the bride concealed old wounds. Maybe the groom’s grin masked guilt. Anything was possible.
Theresa was only fourteen when her neighbour Stephen, then seventeen, caught her walking home from school one day.
“Theresa, you’re a pretty thing,” he said. “When I’m back from service, I’ll marry you. Just wait for me.”
“Some suitor you are!” she scoffed before running inside.
Boys at school had already noticed her, but she paid them no mind, raised strict by her mother. They called her standoffish—too proud to give them the time of day.
“Theresa’s lovely, but wild as a March hare,” the lads whispered. “Won’t let a soul near her.”
Time passed. Stephen returned from his service. The very next day, he stepped outside and nearly collided with Theresa carrying pails of water on a yoke. He froze. Before him stood a woman, tall and poised. For a moment, he couldn’t speak.
“Theresa! You’re even lovelier now. Got a sweetheart, have you?”
“What’s it to you?” she teased.
“Come to the village hall tonight. We’ll dance, have a laugh—”
She shrugged and turned away. But Stephen couldn’t rest. He’d half-forgotten his childish promise to marry her after service—yet here she was, more beautiful than ever. A girl like her deserved only the best, and he’d not let anyone hurt her.
All evening, he waited in the hall, ignoring the girls vying for his attention. Theresa never came.
Next day, he caught her again, lugging water.
“Why didn’t you come last night? I waited.”
“Don’t care for village halls,” she said proudly, stepping past him. He blocked her path.
“Move aside!”
“Or what?”
She set the pails down, seized one, and drenched him.
“There’s your answer,” she laughed. “See who fancies you now!”
She left him standing there, dripping.
“Fiery, that one,” he muttered. “But she’ll be mine.”
He tried everything—waiting by the lane, escorting her home. Once, he gave her wildflowers. She laughed, delighted.
At last, she relented. One evening, she let him sit her on his garden bench. He couldn’t eat or sleep for thinking of her. Little did he know, she’d loved him since childhood. His promise to marry her had lodged in her heart. She’d ignored other lads, waiting for him—yet when he returned, she dared not hope. She saw the girls fawning over him and kept her distance, afraid he’d think her the same.
But spring melted winter. Stephen brought her lilacs—her favourite—and asked her to walk with him.
“All right,” she said, blushing.
At last, he knew.
Soon, the village buzzed. Stephen and Theresa were courting! Gone were her jibes. She saw love in his eyes now. They strolled hand in hand, though the lads teased him.
“Dancing to her tune now, are you?”
He only grinned.
Deeper in love, Stephen resolved to marry her.
“Theresa, we’re not children. Let’s wed. No sense waiting.”
She agreed. But his mother fell ill and died, delaying the wedding.
Months later, before harvest, Stephen told her,
“I’m off to help Oldfield village. They’re shorthanded.”
“How long?”
“Can’t say. But wait for me. You’re my life, my heart.”
Those words undid her. She led him to the hayloft.
“So you’ll remember me—so you’ll return.”
Two weeks later, he did. Soon after, Theresa told him she was expecting. They married quietly, mindful of his mother’s passing.
“Bit quick, this wedding,” her mother mused. “Something you’re not telling me?”
Theresa confessed. Her mother sighed—better wed than shamed.
Married life was bliss. Theresa glowed, doting on Stephen. The village women envied her. A daughter came—early, some whispered. Then a son, Stephen’s image. Their love burned brighter.
Yet envy festered. Among the harvest hands, Clara, the cook—a lonely widow with a bastard son—watched Stephen’s sunburnt arms greedily.
“That Theresa’s got a fine man,” she seethed. “While I’ve naught but envy.”
Bitterness drove her to poison his ear.
“Stephen, think that girl’s yours? When you were in Oldfield, your wife wasn’t pining.”
At first, he ignored her. But doubt crept in. His daughter didn’t favour him—though his son did.
Drip by drip, Clara’s lies ate at him. One night, he drank with a mate and stumbled home late.
“Why this?” Theresa asked.
He seized her shoulders.
“Learned how you waited for me. That girl’s not mine.”
She slapped him.
“You believe tattle over me?”
She slept with the children. Furious, he stormed to Clara’s. She welcomed him, triumphant.
After that, he strayed often. Clara urged him to leave Theresa.
“Come to me proper,” she begged.
But he never did. His wife, wise as she was, fought not with rage but love. She smothered him with affection until he forgot Clara, rushing home each evening.
Years passed. Age claimed their fire. Grandchildren filled their days. Theresa never spoke of his betrayal. What use, when life’s sands ran low?
Now, at their golden feast, surrounded by kin, Stephen watches his wife.
“Clever woman,” he thinks. “She saved us. And I love her more for it.”
Patience, only patience. Some hearts mend, if given time.
