That Day, a Woman I Hadn’t Seen on My Doorstep in Five Years Came to Visit—Tamara Nikitichna. Everyone in Riverton Called Her ‘The General’s Wife’ Behind Her Back.

**Diary Entry 12th March**

That day, a woman I hadnt seen in five years turned up at my doorstep. Margaret Whitmore. Over in Elmford, they called her “The Colonel’s Wife” behind her backnot because she was married to a military man, no, but for the way she carried herself, with a spine straight as a poker and a gaze sharp enough to cut glass. Pride radiated from her like a forcefield, enough to fence in our entire village three times over. She walked like she was treading palace floors, not the muddy lanes of our little hamlet. Never one for idle chatter, eithera curt nod over her shoulder, and that was that.

And here she stood, on the threshold of my clinic. Not herself at all. The spine was still straight out of habit, but her eyeshunted, hollow. Shed tugged her floral scarf down to her brows, as if trying to hide. Hesitated, one foot hovering over the step.

“Come in, Mrs. Whitmore,” I said gently. “No use letting the cold in. I can see youre not here for aspirin.”

She stepped inside, perched on the stool by the hearth, hands folded in her lap. Always such well-kept handsnow dry, cracked, fingers trembling like aspen leaves. Silent. I didnt rush her. Poured her a cup of my tea, steeped with mint and lime blossom. Set it before her.

“Drink,” I said. “Warm your soul.”

She took the cup, and her eyes glistened. No tears fellpride wouldnt allow itbut they pooled there, still as well water.

“Im all alone, Dr. Harris,” she finally whispered, her voice cracked and unfamiliar. “Cant manage anymore. Twisted my wrist last weeknot broken, thank God, but it aches like the devil. Cant fetch wood, cant carry water. And my backhurts so bad I cant breathe.”

Her complaints spilled out, murky and bitter as a spring brook. I listened, nodding, but all I saw wasnt her present miseryit was what happened five years ago.

I remembered laughter in her house, the finest in the village. Her only son, Edward, tall and hardworking, had brought home a bride. Lucy. A quiet angel of a girl, soft-eyed and trusting, with honey-blonde hair in a thick braid. Hands delicate but capable. Anyone could see why Edward loved her. Why Margaret despised her, thoughthat baffled the whole village.

Despised her from day one. “Sits wrong, looks wrong.” The stew wasnt red enough, the floors not clean enough. “Wastes sugar in the compote,” “yanks up good nettles with the weeds.” Edward defended her at first, then wilted. A mamas boy through and through, hed lived under her thumb all his life. Torn between them like a leaf in the wind. And Lucy? She just grew thinner, paler. Once, I found her by the well, eyes swimming.

“Why put up with it, love?” I asked.

She gave me a sad smile. “Where would I go, Dr. Harris? I love him. Maybe shell soften in time”

She never did. The final straw was an heirloom tablecloth, embroidered by Margarets mother. Lucy washed it carelessly; the pattern faded. Lord, the row that followedshouts heard clear down the lane.

That night, Lucy left. No fuss, just gone. By morning, Edward was wild-eyed, searching. When he came back, he faced his mother, voice dead and cold.

“You did this,” was all he said. “You killed my happiness.”

Then he left too. Rumor had it he found Lucy in the citymarried, a daughter born. Never came home. Not a letter, not a call. As if severed.

Margaret put on a brave face. “Good riddance,” she told the neighbors. “Useless daughter-in-law, and a son who trades his mother for a skirt.” But she aged overnight. Shrivelled. Alone in her spotless house, cold as an operating theatre. And now here she sat, all her colonels pride stripped away like onion skin. Just an old, sick, lonely woman.

Boomerangs dont fly out of spitethey just circle back to where theyre thrown.

“Nobody needs me, Dr. Harris,” she whispered, a single tear trailing down. “Might as well hang myself.”

“Dont say such things,” I scolded, though pity choked me. “Lifes for living, not ending. Let me give you an injectionease your back. Well manage the rest.”

I did, rubbing in a menthol salve. She straightened a little, shoulders loosening.

“Thank you,” she murmured. “Never thought Id see kindness again.”

She left, but my heart stayed heavy. I could treat her body, but some sicknesses have no cure in pills or needles. Loneliness is one. The only medicine is another soul.

For days, I agonised. Then I rang Edwardgot his number through a friend in town. My hands shook dialling. What would I say?

“Edward, hello. Dr. Harris from Elmford. Am I interrupting?”

Silence. Then, older, rougher: “Hello, Dr. Harris. Something wrong?”

“Your mothers struggling. Alone. Ill, but too proud to show it.”

Another pause. I heard Lucy in the background, then her voicegentle but firm: “Let me.”

“Hello, Dr. Harris! How bad is she?”

I told her everything. The wrist, the back, the unshed tears. Lucy listened, then said, “Well come. Saturday. Dont tell herlet it be a surprise.”

Imagine that. Chased out, scorned, yet not an ounce of spite left in her. Only pity. A mighty thing, pitystronger than any grudge.

Saturday came, grey and damp. I visited Margaret under pretence of checking her blood pressure. She sat by the window, staring. The house was spotless but lifelesschilly as a tomb.

“Expecting someone?” I asked.

“Whod visit me?” she scoffed. But her eyes kept flicking to the lane. Every mother waits, even if she wont admit it.

I left, watching the clock. After lunch, a car stopped at her gate. Not the grocers vana sedan. Edward stepped out, broader now. Opened the back door, and out came Lucy, holding their four-year-old, Emily, bundled in a pink coat like candyfloss.

Edward hesitated, jaw tight. Lucy touched his arm, whispered something, and they walked to the gate. The hinge creakedrusty time shifting at last.

I didnt see inside. But an hour later, smoke curled from Margarets chimneythick, hearty. The fire was lit. By evening, golden light glowed in the window. So warm, so homely, I smiled through tears.

Next day, I dropped by. The house was alivesmelling of cabbage pies and childhood. Edward chopped wood outside, axe ringing in the frost. Lucy bustled in the kitchen; Emily played with a kitten by the hearth.

Margaret sat wrapped in a shawl, watchingnot glaringjust *seeing*: Lucys deft hands, Emilys earnest face, Edwards strong back through the window. Her expressionlike a mask lifted, leaving just a tired, lined, *living* face.

She saw me and smilednot with her lips, but her eyes.

“Come in, Dr. Harris. Lucys baked pies.”

Lucy turned, beaming. “Join us for tea.”

And we sat. No awkwardness, no old wounds. Just warmth, the smell of pastry, and a childs quiet laughter. Edward entered, sat beside his mother, and simply laid his hand over hers. She didnt pull away. Just trembled, and stayed still.

They stayed a week. The house filled with noise, repairs, life. When they left, Margaret stood on the step, frail. Emily hugged her knees.

“Grandma, will you visit us?”

Margaret broke. Bent down, clutched the girl, and weptsoft as autumn rain. “Forgive me silly old woman”

Lucy embraced them both. “Well come again, Mum. I promise.”

**Lesson learned:** Pride builds the tallest walls, but love slips through the cracks. Always does.