Dawn found us on a dusty road leading away from the village. In one hand, I held little Sophie’s tiny palm, in the other—a light suitcase stuffed less with belongings than with shattered hopes.

The morning found us on a dusty road leading away from the village. In one hand, I held little Sophies tiny fingers, and in the other, a light suitcase stuffed not so much with clothes but with shattered hopes. The bus wheezed as it pulled away from the stop, carrying us far from the place where, just hours before, Id still believed in something. I left without even saying goodbye to Mark. He was out fishing at dawn, just as hed eagerly described the night before. Through the grimy window, watching the fields rush past, I realised a simple, bitter truth: Id never met a man whose love was worth fighting for. And yet, it had all begun so beautifully, so blindingly romantic it took my breath away.

Mark had barged into my life during his final year at university. He wouldnt leave me alone, showering me with compliments, gazing at me with lovesick eyes that melted every doubt. He swore he loved me, that he couldnt imagine life without me or my four-year-old Sophie. His persistence, that boyish sincerity, thawed the ice around my heartstill fragile after losing my first husband. Within three months, we were living together in my flat. He was full of plans and promises.

“Alice, love,” his eyes shone like two deep lakes, “Ill graduate next month, and well go straight to my village. Ill introduce you to my parents, my family! Ill tell them youre my future wife! Youll say yes, wont you?” He hugged me, and the world seemed simple and bright.
“Alright, yes,” I replied, a timid hope flickering inside. Hed often said his mother was kind, hospitable, a real home-maker. I believed him. I *wanted* to believe.

The village where Mark grew up greeted us with a quiet evening sun. His family all lived close, practically next door. I didnt know then about Emily, the local beauty whod been in love with Mark since childhoodeveryones pride and the perfect bride-to-be in their eyes. Nor did I know about Grandad Henry, Marks grandfather, who lived nearby in his crumbling cottage and often visited his sons bathhouse since his own had fallen into disrepair. Grandad Henry spent his days in quiet solitude, staring at the hill beyond the village where his wife lay under a birch tree. He knew guests were cominghis grandson was bringing his fiancée.

The night before, Grandad Henry had dropped by and found his daughter-in-law, Helen, in a foul mood.
“Fallen out with Stephen again?” he asked, ready to lecture his son.
But Helen, seeing him, spat out her bitterness first:
“Hello, Grandad. You know our Marks getting married? Bringing his *chosen one* tomorrow.”
“I know, Stephen mentioned. Well, goodits time. Hes finished uni, got a job. Let him settle before life passes him by,” Grandad said philosophically.
“Thats all well,” Helen scoffed, her face twisting, “*but* this *chosen one* Shes three years older! And a child in tow, four years old! As if there arent plenty of good village girlsour Emily, for one! Pretty, works as a nurse, hardworking And whos *this* one? No one knows whose child that is, what family shes from. Why saddle himself with someone elses burden? Hell have his own kids! Oh, she must be thrilledsnagged herself a graduate”
“Helen, its not your place to meddle,” Grandad tried, but she wasnt listening.

Shed been seething for days, nursing resentment toward her son and this stranger whod stolen him from the *perfect* match. So, she hatched a quiet, venomous plan: no effort, no lavish table, no warm smiles. Let this city girl see she wasnt wanted. Shed taken Markthat was enough.

We arrived at dusk, weary but still hopeful. Mark was glowing. A year away, hed missed his parents, his grandad, this place. His mother opened the door. He burst in first, dropping his bag, while Sophie and I hovered on the doorstep, waiting for an invitation.
“Mark, darling, my boy!” Helen clung to him as if afraid to let go, but her glance at me and Sophie was cold and appraising. “Finally home! Our graduate!” She stressed *our*, shooting me a look that said, *unlike some*.
“Mum, wheres Dad? Grandad Henry?”
“At the bathhouse. Theyll be back soon. Missed you so much,” again, only *you*.

Then her eyes landed on me, sugary but sharp.
“So this is *Alice*? With a *child*?” Her gaze dragged over me, slow and dismissive.
“Well, come in, wash your hands. Mark, show them where everything is.”

From the first words, I understood. Mark, though, seemed oblivious. Beaming, he took my hand and led me through the house. Soon, his dad and grandad returned from the bathhouse. Stephen, Helens husband, was gruff but sincere, and Grandad Henrywarm, with gentle eyes. They hugged us all with genuine delight.

“Good on you for coming!” Stephen boomed. “Helen, set the table! Theyre tired, hungry. And we could use a bite after the sauna!”

The table was *barely* set. Mark frowned brieflyhe knew what his mother was capable of. I barely ate, my throat tight with hurt. Inside, frustration simmered: why hadnt he introduced me as his fiancée? Why let them slight me?

Stephen poured homemade wine and raised a toast, but Helen cut in:
“To you, son! Your degree, your new job! Were so proud!”

Toast after toastonly for Mark. As if Sophie and I didnt exist. And he he shone, laughed, chatted with his dad and grandad. Not a word about us. I didnt recognise him. I tried to excuse it*He missed them. But he loves me*

Only Grandad Henry glanced at us now and then, warm and sympathetic, then sharp at Helen. He saw everything. And it pained him.

Sophie, polite but exhausted, could barely keep her eyes open. I turned to Helen.
“May I put Sophie to bed? Where should we sleep?”

She nodded stiffly and led us to a cramped room with a narrow bed.
“Here. Sheets are clean.” She left, slamming the door.

I tucked Sophie in, already half-asleep, and heard Helen outside, loud and pointed:
“Says shes tired, will sleep with the child.”

My heart ached. I lay beside Sophie, silent tears falling. *What am I doing here? Wheres the kind, welcoming mother he described? Why doesnt he see this?* If I could, Id leave now. But outsideonly unfamiliar village darkness. I cried quietly, for both of us.

A touch woke meMark.
“Alice, come to my room. Why squeeze in here? Ill move Sophie. Sorry about todayjust caught up with family. Well talk tomorrow, promise. The wedding, everything.” His whisper was gentle, but emptyno understanding.

I didnt sleep. Replaying every word, every look. Remembering my first meeting with my late husbands motherhow shed embraced me, wept with joy, become a second mum. Remembering Danielhis strength, his protection. Hed *never* let anyone slight me. But here Helen showed me everything without words. And Mark just smiled like nothing was wrong.

*To them, Im a mistake. Because of Sophie. But theyre wrong if they think Ill let them belittle us. We leave tomorrow.*

Breakfast was an illusion of family harmony. Stories of Marks childhood, laughter. Stephen gave Sophie sweets; Helen watched, seething. Then, with feigned sadness:
“Well, son, carefree days are over. Now youll work hard, provide” Her glance at Sophie screamed *for someone elses child.*

I looked at Mark. He just grinned, clueless. Stephen slammed the table.
“Helen!”

But my patience snapped. Then Mark, oblivious, chirped:
“Alice, Sophie, lets tour the village! Visit Grandad Henry!”

Outside, I poured out my pain, the injustice. He brushed it off*youre overreacting, just Mums jealousy*. He didnt grasp it: I didnt need him to fight his mother. Just one word in our defence. But he stayed silent.
“Dont fret, love,” he patted my shoulder. “Well leave soon. Im fishing at dawnperfect catch then!”

At dawn, he was gone. I washed up and faced Helen in the hall. Her face twisted.
“Mark says youre leaving. Because of *you*. When will I see my son now? Will you chain him to your apron strings? Feed you and your child”

I listened, strangely calm. No anger, just clarity. Smiling politely,