Poppy never trusted her husband, so she learned to rely on herself, as if that were the only rule written on the wall of their marriage. Victor, her spouse, was as handsome as a field of poppies under sunrise, the life of any gathering, sipping his whisky sparingly, never lighting a cigarette, and showing no appetite for football, angling, or hunting. A proper chapfit for a manor, people would mutter.
Because of those tidy virtues, Poppy guessed that Victor sought solace beyond the households doors. Men of his sort, she thought, vanished like smoke in daylight, while huntresses would inevitably appear Yet one thing steadied Poppys nerves: Victor adored their little boy. He poured all his free hours into caring for Stephen, their son, and Poppy convinced herself that this fierce paternal love alone could hold the family together.
At school, the other girls teased Poppy, calling her Ginger for the fiery curls that crowned her head and the freckles that dusted her cheeks like powdered sugar. Her mother, a striking beauty herself, had long whispered: Poppy, youre my little swan among the ugly ducklings. Forgive the harsh truth, love. No man will take you in marriage, so you must stand on your own two feet. Study hard, build a career, and if a decent chap ever appears, be a dutiful wife. Those words lodged in Poppys mind like a knot.
After graduating with a gold medal, Poppy entered university, where she met the man who would become Victor. She could not fathom why someone as enviable as him found her appealing. Victor later confessed that Poppy was the only girl he dared approach. She never wore makeup, shunned gaudy colours, and dressed plainly, never flirting. When she realised such a prominent fellow was courting her, she seized the moment, proposing marriage herself. Victor was initially taken aback by her forwardness, but Poppy swore to be meek, faithful, and loyal. Love will grow, she promised. After some hesitation, Victor agreed, nudged by his mothers approval.
When Victor first brought Poppy home, Mrs. Margaret, his mother, eyed her with a disapproving glare. What a freckled mess, she thought, my son is a sunbright lad, and heres this. The encounter was anything but smooth.
Poppy sensed the scorn, yet she knew a handsome husband could become an obstacle to happiness. She decided to meet Mrs. Margaret alone, hoping to salvage her future wedding. Over tea, Mrs. Margaret, surprisingly, found Poppy tolerable. Im getting used to her, she admitted. Poppy pledged to be a faithful, obedient wife, a promise that outweighed any blemish on her face.
Mrs. Margaret, a solitary widow, had been abandoned by her husband years ago for a new love. He returned, broken and ragged, only to be rejected by his own family. She spent her life wondering whether she should have forgiven him, but the sting remained. Raising a son alone was arduous, so she finally accepted her sons choice, realizing that Poppy would wait for Victor on any road, even the bumpiest. She blessed their union.
A year later, Stephen arrived, a perfect miniature of his striking father, to Mrs. Margarets delight. Victor fluttered around him like a moth, making the boy his world. Yet love for his wife never blossomed, and Poppys passion for Victor never ignited. Their days were a calm routine: Poppy washed and ironed shirts, prepared meals, kissed Victors cheek at night; Victor handed over his entire paycheck, bought flowers for birthdays, and kissed her in the mornings before rushing to work. It felt more like a ritual than romance. Both believed true marital love existed somewhere in books and whispered by friends.
After five years, Victor finally stumbled upon that feeling not with his wife, but with a celestial beauty named Beatrice. She was otherworldly, a siren of the skies. Victor could not resist her charm. Beatrice reciprocated, and they met in cafés, on park benches, and at friends flats. The secret meetings wore Victor thin; he grew distant, and Stephen saw a frustrated father instead of the smiling dad he once knew. Beatrice gave an ultimatum: Either marry me, Victor, or we remain friends. I wont linger with old flames.
Victor was torn. He did not wish to lose Beatrice, yet Stephen was his blood. He could not think of Poppy at all. At five, Stephen watched his father pack his bags and leave.
Poppy recalled her mothers stern lessons. As a child those words had cut deep, but now they steadied her. She realised she could survive Victors departure without dramatic gestures, without leaping from a bridge into a river, without three streams of tearsher mothers vaccination against hardship had worked.
The whole absurd saga gnawed at her heart, a fragment sinking into the deepest well of her soul. Happiness, she mused, is a free bird that lands wherever it pleases. She would drink the bitter cup of a forsaken wife to the last drop. As she bid Victor farewell, she whispered, Youre always welcome back, but dont linger. Stephen loves you. Dont make him suffer.
Victor lingered for six more months, torn between son and Beatrice. Poppy kept Victors toothbrush in a separate cup in the bathroom. Each time he washed his hands, the lonely brush stared back at him, a mute rebuke. Once, Victor slipped the cursed brush into his pocket, vowing to discard it. Yet on his next visit, a brandnew brush sat in the cup, mocking him.
The kitchen always held his favourite mug of hot coffee, and the hallway waiting slippers greeted his return. These small domestic echoes scratched at Victors conscience. He fled the house, unable to explain why he left; an unseen force pulled him toward Beatrice, tearing his soul apart. He wondered how to avoid hurting those he loved, but answers eluded him.
He imagined Poppy could block his doorway, curse the interloper, and rebuke him, yet she remained silent, and each time he left, she said softly, Come back, Victor. Remember us
When Victor returned to Beatrice, she despised the chaos surrounding Stephen. She warned him, If I ever leave, it will be because of your beloved son. You care for him more than for me. And so the years stretched.
Friends whispered to Poppy, Dear, why havent you married by now? Stephen needs his father daily, not just on holidays. Youre still young. Forget Victor. She listened, sighed, and stayed quiet. Eventually, the friends stopped urging; they accepted she was alone.
Time marched on. Victor stopped visiting Stephen. The father and grown son met only on neutral ground. Stephen finished school, and Poppy finally accepted that her husband would not return after twelve long years. She placed a final period on that chapter, realizing she still had the strength to raise another child. She bought a ticket and flew to a warm seaside resort, where she enjoyed a brief, commitmentfree flingjust a fleeting kiss on a bench.
Nine months later, Stephen welcomed a sister, Lucy. Poppys friends were shocked by her decisive action, waiting at the maternity wards doorway for the newborn. The weary yet radiant new mother emerged, cradling a pinkribboned bundle. Hello, ladies! Please adore my little Lucy! she beamed.
One friend sniped, And what surname shall we call her by?
Poppy retorted, Shell grow into it!
No teasing could dim Poppys joy. Her life now revolved around Lucys upbringing. Stephen became her steadfast helper, adoring his baby sister. He never asked probing questions about Lucys father; his mothers bliss eclipsed everything else.
When Lucy entered nursery at three, the other toddlers enlightened her: Kids can have mums and dads too! Lucy began calling Stephen dad, a bittersweet habit that made everyone smile.
One evening, a hesitant knock sounded at Poppys flat. Lucy darted to the door, shouting, Its my dad! Poppy peered through the peephole and saw Victor. She opened the door wide.
May I come in, Poppy? Victor asked, shifting from foot to foot.
Come in, if youre here, she replied, surprise flickering in her voice.
Victor set two bulging bags aside, removed his backpack, and Lucy lunged into his arms, exclaiming, Mum, its my dad, right?
Poppy, tears welling, answered, Yes, Lucy, thats your father.
Victor lifted the little girl, kissed her freckled nose, ruffled her golden curls, and whispered, Hello, my little ginger! He then turned to Poppy, pressing his lips to her hand.
Thank you, Poppy, for everything. Will you forgive me? he pleaded, trying to kneel.
Poppy gently grasped his elbow, keeping him upright. Greetings, my bitter honey. You were away for seventeen years. No grudges, no blame. The past is the past. We need a father now, she said, sighing with relief.
Stephen stood nearby, eyes wide with astonishment, a faint smile tugging at his lips.
Weeks later, recovered from the whirlwind, Poppy called a curious friend and declared, You wanted to know my daughters middle name? Shes Lucy Viktoria. Remember thatno alternatives.
