He took their son with him—and it was only a dream…
Margaret met Stanley at a dance in the village hall. He noticed her at once—a tall, slender girl with lively eyes and a bright laugh. All evening, he stayed by her side, and when the night ended, he offered to walk her home.
“Shall I come by tomorrow evening? We could take a stroll,” he asked as they parted.
“Do,” she whispered, her heart fluttering.
So began their story. In a small village, gossip spread swiftly—soon, everyone knew: Margaret had a sweetheart. The whispers followed:
“They’ll be wed before long. He’s smitten, follows her like a shadow. A fine match, both steady sorts.”
Before long, Stanley did propose. They held a lively wedding, the whole village turning out to celebrate. The newlyweds settled into the cottage Stanley had built himself—a skilled craftsman, he’d learned from his father. In time, a son was born. All was well. For a while.
But as years passed, Stanley began lingering at the neighbours’—helping with odd jobs, staying for a drink. At first, it seemed harmless. Then it became a habit.
“Stanley, enough of this,” Margaret would chide. “I’m tired of seeing you come home tipsy.”
“What’s the harm? A man’s allowed his company. I’ve done my share at home.”
Their boy grew older, Margaret took work in the village, leaving him with his grandmother. Stanley still “helped” the neighbours. But more often, he stumbled home late, his breath thick with ale. Their marriage frayed. Arguments flared. Once, she even sent him away—but for their son’s sake, she forgave him. He swore to mend his ways. And for a time, he did. Until the old habits crept back.
Margaret often thought of leaving. But their boy adored his father. When sober, Stanley doted on him—teaching, playing, building. For the child’s sake, she endured. And she hoped, foolishly, that the kind man she’d married might return.
Years and weariness took their toll. Stanley grew frail, his health slipping.
“Let’s see the doctor,” Margaret pressed.
“Trifles. A day’s rest will set me right. I’m not so old yet.”
He sought no help until he could no longer rise from bed. The doctor’s verdict was grim.
“Why did you wait so long?” he murmured, shaking his head. “Time is short, Margaret.”
She nursed Stanley till the end. Pain, helplessness, tears—all tangled together. Then he was gone. The village turned out for his funeral—even those who’d scorned his drinking respected the man and his skill.
On the fortieth night, she dreamed of him. He stood in shadow, whispering:
“How goes it without me? Be glad while you can… But remember—I’ll take the boy with me.”
She woke in a cold sweat, rushing to the nursery. Twelve-year-old Thomas slept soundly. She told no one of the dream. Yet from that night, she watched him closer—fretting over every cough, every scrape. The dream never returned, but the dread lingered.
Six months later, Thomas did not come home from school. A carriage, a moment’s misstep—gone in an instant.
Margaret nearly broke. Grief clawed at her, stole her breath, her sleep. After the burial, she spoke little. Months passed before she could bear to face the world.
In time, she married a widower with two daughters. She tried to be a good mother. Later, they had a son of their own. Life, in its way, mended. But her heart never wholly healed. Thomas remained—her firstborn, taken by his father. The man who had once been her world.
Now, Margaret has grandchildren. They visit, laughter ringing through the house. She smiles. But when Thomas visits her dreams, she weeps. For now, she knows—prophetic dreams are real. Perhaps they warn us. Yet we can seldom change what comes. Only endure. And live… somehow.
