The Joy of Motherhood
The early morning is warm and quiet in the village nestled along the woods by the riverside. The lowing of cows drifts through the air—there aren’t many left now—and here and there, the lazy bark of a dog. Dark clouds gather over the forest beyond the river.
Agatha loves rising early in the summer. She cherishes these morning hours, even though she keeps no livestock—just a few chickens and a gentle dog named Bear in the yard. She lives alone in the house left to her by her mother, who passed away nearly ten years ago.
Agatha, a slender woman in her thirties, stands by the well, straining as she turns the crank with both hands to draw up a full bucket of water. Lifting the heavy load, she carries the buckets along the dirt path toward her cottage.
Loss and Sorrow
Agatha had been married to Zachary for only six months. Tall and strong, Zachary worked as a gamekeeper in these parts, a terror to poachers who rolled into town in flashy cars. It seems he crossed the wrong person in the woods—they killed him. The investigation dragged on, but no one was ever found, and Zachary was buried.
Since then, Agatha has lived alone. Suitors have come from neighboring villages, but she refused to start a family without love. Still, she has a soft spot for Gregory, the local mechanic, who vaguely reminds her of Zachary—just as sturdy, quiet, and unassuming. She often catches his warm gaze but quickly looks away.
After burying her husband, Agatha grieved for a long time.
“I wish I’d had Zachary’s child. A piece of him would still be with me. That happiness never came. Now I’m alone,” she thought, feeling the pull of motherhood with no one to care for.
The Farmer’s Son
There was a boy in the village—Johnny, wild and insolent, often drunk, lurking near Agatha’s home when she returned from work. Once, he even clumsily confessed his love, then tried to grab her. She shoved him away, darted into her yard, and snatched up the shovel by the porch.
“Take one step closer, and I’ll split your skull in two,” she said firmly. Johnny, seeing the fire in her eyes, paled and slunk away.
He lived with his father, a wealthy but harsh farmer who’d buried his wife years ago. Villagers whispered he’d driven her to her grave. Johnny took after him in temper but refused to work. Local girls feared the perpetually drunken lout. Once, he beat a lad bloody for defending his sweetheart, landing the boy in hospital. The constable came, levied a fine, and that was that—no one dared cross the wealthy farmer. The fine was just hush money.
Then, one night, the village stirred as flames lit the sky. The farmer’s grand house and barns burned to the ground, though someone had kindly freed the livestock. Another investigation, another dead end—blamed on faulty wiring. The farmer never left the house. Johnny, meanwhile, hadn’t slept at home that night.
Agatha exhaled in relief when word spread that Johnny had left for the city, joining some unsavory mates.
“Good riddance,” she murmured.
An Unwelcome Guest
Time passed. Agatha climbed her porch steps with her buckets and froze—the door stood ajar.
“Must’ve forgotten to latch it,” she thought, stepping inside. The inner door was open too.
Cautiously, she listened—then the stench of tobacco and booze hit her. Setting the buckets down, she entered the room and spotted a man slumped in the corner of her bed. She recoiled, then recognized Johnny.
“Thank God, not a thief,” flashed through her mind.
She shoved his shoulder. He cracked an eye open.
“Get out. Since when do you make yourself at home here?” she snapped. “Up, or I’ll scream for the whole village.”
“Where’ve you been at this hour? Out all night?” he slurred.
“Who are you to question me? Out!” Agatha seethed.
“Keep it down—you’ll wake the boy,” he muttered, nodding toward the small room.
Agatha peeked behind the curtain. A small figure curled on the sofa—a sleeping child. She whirled back.
“Whose boy is that?” she hissed.
“My son. Robbie.”
“Your son? Since when?” She couldn’t fathom this brute having children.
Robbie
She approached the boy. He was thin and grubby, like a stray pup.
“Yeah, he’s mine. His mum died. Been with me a couple months.”
“How old is he?”
“Dunno. Five, maybe?”
“You don’t know your own son’s age?” she gasped.
“Can we crash here a couple days?” Johnny rasped. “Got things to sort.”
“No.”
Then a tiny voice behind her: “Auntie, I’m thirsty.”
Agatha turned. The boy stood there. Her arms fell limp.
“Come, sweetheart.”
“I’m not sweetheart. I’m Robbie,” he piped.
“Alright, Robbie. Alright.”
She gave him water, tucked him in, and returned to the kitchen, where a scruffy Johnny slouched at the table.
“Agatha, I’ll beg if I have to. Don’t throw us out. Just a few days. I won’t trouble you,” he mumbled.
Out of pity for the boy, Agatha relented. Robbie was quiet, too serious for his age. He only smiled when playing with Bear in the yard. Johnny, surprisingly, behaved—chopping wood, fetching water. She didn’t pry into his business but couldn’t bring herself to turn them out.
“You’ve got a flat in town. Money,” she prodded.
“Gone. Lost it all—the flat too. Maybe that’s why his mum died.” He nodded at Robbie. “Heart trouble. Let us stay. I’ll find work.”
She didn’t believe him. Villagers said he ran with a rough crowd in the city, scraping by through shady means. At first, Johnny stayed sober, but soon the stench of drink returned.
“What do I do?” Agatha wondered, realizing she was growing attached to Robbie. What kind of life would he have with such a father?
Her Son
Robbie, too, warmed to her. He asked childish questions that made her laugh. One evening, he nestled against her, resting his head on her lap. Each day, she felt his need for her—and hers for him. She bathed him, fed him, read him stories, even bought him new clothes.
Soon, the stranger’s boy was her own. She took him to work at the farm. Johnny drifted in and out, ignoring his son. Then one day, she returned to find her door wide open, her home ransacked. The money in her dresser was gone. So was her new coat.
Tears streamed down her face as Robbie tugged her sleeve.
“Auntie Agatha, don’t cry. Dad did this. He’s gone. He won’t come back. Can I stay with you?” His eyes searched hers.
“Yes, Robbie. You’re my boy now.”
“Forever?”
“Forever.”
The constable came again. Paperwork loomed—school would start soon. The birth certificate listed no father. At least the feckless man had left that behind.
“Agatha, if you’re set on this, I’ll help sort the guardianship,” the constable said.
“Thank you,” she murmured, hugging Robbie tight.
And so, Robbie became her beloved son. She poured all her unused love into him, calling herself blessed to be a mother. He, in turn, called her “Mum,” melting her heart. The cottage brightened, filled with laughter as Robbie played with Bear, feeding him happily.
Happiness Finds Her
One day, Gregory passed by—or perhaps stopped on purpose. Robbie was playing in the yard.
“Robbie, is your mum home?”
“She is. Should I call her?”
“Nah, I’ll come in. Bear won’t mind, will he?”
Just then, Agatha stepped onto the porch. “Gregory? Come in.”
He fidgeted in the kitchen, gathering courage.
“Agatha, why dance around it? I see how you look at me. I’ve fancied you for ages, but with all this… Well, now it’s settled. I love you more for taking Robbie in. Let’s raise him together. He needs a dad. Maybe more kids later…” He trailed off as she smiled.
“Took you long enough. But yes.”
She adored this steady, kind man with laughter in his eyes. When Robbie heard, he flung himself at Gregory, sensing his strength and kindness. They bonded fast.
A village wedding followed. Robbie had a real family now. A year later, a baby brother arrived, and he rejoiced.
Johnny vanished into the underworld, never heard from again. Not that anyone missed him.
