**GUARDED BY LOVE**
The meeting of Clara and Oliver was written in the stars long before they ever laid eyes on one another.
Oliver had never seen his father. Raised by his mother and grandmother, he often asked about the man who had vanished from his life. His mother would dismiss the question with vague murmurs—his father was a geologist, she said, forever off in search of rare minerals. But once, in frustration, she snapped, *”You never had a father, Ollie!”*
For a time, young Oliver accepted this. He trusted his mother without question. But as he grew older, doubt crept in. Surely no child was born of thin air! His grandmother, at last, revealed the truth in secret—his mother had once returned from a business trip carrying more than just memories. Oliver was overjoyed to solve the mystery. At least he hadn’t been found under a gooseberry bush. He vowed then to seek out his father one day, whether the man wished it or not. *”I’m his son, not some stranger!”* And more than that, Oliver made himself another promise: *”I will have a real family—one wife, many children, and a home full of love.”*
Clara, too, had never known a father’s love. Her parents parted before she turned two, and though her stepfather was kind, he always held up his own children as examples. It grated on her. In the end, Clara had only her mother’s affection to rely upon.
As she grew, Clara resolved, *”If I ever marry, it will be once—and forever. If only such a man exists.”*
And then, he did.
It was Christmas Eve. January’s chill hung in the air as twilight settled over London. In a quiet bookshop, Oliver and Clara stood in line, each holding a volume of Shakespeare. Their eyes met by chance—and Oliver took his chance. He showered her with compliments, asked her thoughtful questions. He couldn’t simply let her walk away. She *had* to be his wife. It had to be her.
Clara didn’t play coy. There was something warm and familiar about this eager young man, as if she had known him a lifetime. But she was a proper girl, raised to know better than to give her heart to a stranger in a shop. Sensing her reserve, Oliver offered to exchange telephone numbers. Clara took his—but left hers unspoken. *”I’ll call after the holidays,”* she said vaguely.
Oliver wouldn’t let such a gift from Heaven slip away. They parted, but he lingered in the shadows, following just far enough to learn where she lived.
The holidays passed in a blur, Oliver floating on air. He had found his swan-song love, and he would cherish her forever.
Yet New Year came and went—and still, no call from Clara. Desperate, Oliver took matters into his own hands. He left the Shakespeare he had bought that night in her letterbox. Surely she would know who sent it?
That very evening, the telephone rang. *”Oliver? Why didn’t you call? I waited!”*
*”Clara, my dear,”* he laughed, his heart alight. *”You never gave me your number. Or don’t you remember?”*
*”Yet here you are,”* she argued, *”somehow finding me anyway!”*
*Typical woman’s logic,* Oliver thought, giddy with relief. She cared after all.
There was no waiting for better days. Oliver and Clara married, bound by their shared dreams—a love pure and certain, a house brimming with children, and a deep devotion to Shakespeare. What more did they need?
Clara taught literature at university; Oliver was a brilliant engineer. In time, little Eleanor arrived, followed two years later by William. Life marched in perfect harmony.
Still, Oliver longed to meet his father. The search led him through countless names—until at last, a match. His father, a professor of medicine in Cambridge, welcomed him with open arms.
*”I’m glad you found me, son,”* the man said, embracing him. Oliver spoke proudly of Eleanor, William—his father was a grandfather now, and God willing, there would be more.
But life’s duties kept them apart, and their meetings faded.
The years rolled on. Eleanor and William grew. Clara began work on her dissertation—her mother and grandmother had both earned their doctorates, and she wouldn’t lag behind. Shakespeare, naturally, was her chosen theme.
For three years, she toiled, Oliver supporting her at every turn. Then, in the midst of it all, little Margaret was born. The dissertation had to wait.
Once Margaret started nursery, Clara returned to her studies. Success seemed assured—until Oliver fell ill. The doctors were baffled. No cure existed. At just forty, death loomed over him.
Clara was shattered. Worse still, she carried another secret—new life stirring within her. She couldn’t tell Oliver. It would only deepen his sorrow.
*”You *must* get well,”* she wept by his bedside. *”You cannot leave me—leave *us.*”*
In desperation, she summoned Oliver’s father. The old professor examined him, then drew Clara aside.
*”Medicine has no answer here,”* he admitted. *”But… there’s an herbalist in Oxford. He saved me once. Go to him.”*
The next morning, Clara stood before the ancient healer. He glanced at Oliver’s charts, then pressed vials of murky green liquid into her hands.
*”Return with your husband in ten days. We will continue then.”*
*”With him? He cannot *move!*”*
*”Girl, listen—there’s no cure for death, but your man *breathes.* He *will* stand again. I swear it.”*
Clara nearly tore the instructions to shreds. *Herbs? Foolishness!* Yet she had no other hope.
Ten days later, Oliver walked unaided into the herbalist’s study. Within a month, he was back at work. A miracle? Perhaps. The old man never named Oliver’s illness, parting only with the words: *”Forgive all. Envy none.”*
In time, Clara bore a son—Edward. Eleanor, William, Margaret, Edward. A family straight from the pages of Dickens.
Oliver and Clara guard their love fiercely now, knowing happiness flees swiftly while sorrow lingers.
And the unfinished dissertation? Clara set it aside without regret.
Her family was always the greater tale.
