Sand Through the Fingers

The house was thick with silence, broken only by the crackling of the fire in the hearth. Margaret Thompson, her face lined with tired wrinkles, watched her son with a heavy heart as he packed the last of his things into a canvas bag. Tomorrow, hed be off to the army.

“Tom, love, just tell mewhat do you see in that that flighty girl?” Her voice trembled, barely above a whisper. “She doesnt give you the time of day! Walks about like shes too good for the likes of us, and youyouve got stars in your eyes for her. Plenty of nice girls in the village, Tom. Theres Emily Cooper, for one. Bright, hardworking, always glancing your way. But you dont even notice, do you? Like the whole world begins and ends with Lucy.”

Tom, broad-shouldered with a stubborn jaw and kind eyes now clouded with irritation, didnt turn around. His fingers tightened the knot on the bag.

“Dont want Emily, Mum. Made up my mind. Loved Lucy since we were kids. If she wont have me, I wont marry at all. No point going on about it.”

“Shell break your heart, Tommy! I feel it in my bones!” His mother sniffed. “Prettyyes, Ill give her thatbut cold as ice, that one. Belongs in the city, not flouncing about our little village.”

Tom finally turned. His gaze was unreadable, set like stone. “Enough. Were done talking.”

Meanwhile, in the house next door, thick with cheap perfume and the restless energy of youth, Lucy was putting the finishing touches on her evening lookdark eyeliner, bold lips. The mirror reflected a girl who wanted to be seen, wanted to be swept away far from this place.

“Lucy, wherere you off to all dolled up like that?” her mother called from the kitchen. “Dancing again? And then out till dawn, I suppose? You ought to invite Tom. Good lad, that one. Finished trade school, got his head on straight. Hired workers, building a house with his dadsays its for his future wife. And hes got eyes only for you, love. Proper smitten.”

Lucy scoffed, twisting in front of the mirror. “Toms a bore, Mum. Building a houseas if thats living! Youths only onceI want fun, not some bloke slogging away like a workhorse. Hes not for me, hear? Not ever. Dont bring him up again.” And with that, she fluttered out, leaving a cloud of perfume behind.

Autumn that year was golden and bitter. Tom graduated, got his call-up papers. His parents threw a quiet, heartfelt farewell. Lucy and her mother cameneighbours, after all.

Tom, stiff in his new suit, found Lucy lingering in the hallway. His pulse hammered in his throat.

“Lu” His voice faltered. “Could I write to you? All the lads write to their girls. And I dont have one. Maybe youd be mine? Even just on paper?”

Lucy looked at him like he was a sweet but tiresome puppy. “Fine. Write if you like. If Im in the mood, Ill reply. If notwell, dont take it to heart.”

It was enough. His face lit up with such hope it almost made her look away.

For a while, she answered his lettersneat, soldiers handwriting. But after school, she bolted for the city, chasing a teaching degree. The village life, Toms lettersall left behind. The replies stopped.

Her mother sighed, hoping Lucy might come to her senses, wait for Tom, settle down. But Lucy wouldnt hear of it.

“Ill finish uni, marry some educated city bloke, and never step foot in that godforsaken village again!” she shrieked when her mother dared mention Tom.

Fate had other plans. She failed her first examcompositionspectacularly. The irony? Their village school had been understaffed. The same teacher handled English and Frenchfluent in French, shaky in English. Lucy, like her classmates, knew neither properly.

But Lucy wasnt one to wallow. The citys lights lured her in. Soon, she found comfort in charming, cynical Edwardlaw student, living alone in a flat while his parents worked up north.

She moved in quickly. To pull her weight, she took a job pushing a trolley of pastries in a factory canteen, enduring the workers leers. At Eds, she played housecleaning, cooking, stealing pastries from work. She imagined herself his wife, almost. A home, a future. She loved him dizzyingly.

Then, one rainy evening, Ed sprawled on the sofa and said flatly, “Were done, Lu. Had our fun. Move outparents are coming back.”

Something inside her snapped. But prideand city-hardened pridekept her composed. She packed quietly, left without a scene. Only when the door shut did the tears come.

Weeks later, at a friends, she realized something was wrong. Nausea, dizziness. The doctor was blunt: “Youre pregnant. Too late for an abortion.”

Lucy didnt consider it. This was Eds childa piece of him. Then came her mothers letter. Tom was back. Asked after her.

A desperate, cruel plan formed. Rush home. Play the devoted fiancée. Marry Tom. If notat least have the baby near family.

Tom welcomed her like a queen. Asked no questions. His love was blind, forgivingexactly what she needed. That first night, blushing, he showed her the house hed built for her. Strong, smelling of fresh wood and hope.

She didnt need to seduce himhe was already hers. They married in weeks. Tom glowed. He missed nothingnot the neighbours whispers, not Emilys venomous glances, not even his mothers frown as Lucys belly swelled too fast.

“Strong lad, this one!” Tom boasted. “Growing by the hour!”

Lucy gave birth in the city, bribing the doctor to claim the baby was premature. Fate relentedthe boy was small. “Seven months,” the doctor said, pocketing the envelope. *Thank God,* Lucy thought.

Max grew quiet, obedient. Tom adored himtook him to the farm, let him “drive” the tractor. Even his mother warmed to the boy, spoiling him rotten.

Tom worked tirelessly. His little farm thrived.

Lucy kept house, raised Max. Outwardlyperfect. Inside, she was cold to Tom. She still loved Ed, saw Tom as reliable but dull. She faked affection but stayedshe couldnt raise Max alone. And she took care not to have more children.

But secrets never stay buried.

Max was eight. A sunny day. Playing in a friends yard. The friends dad had dug a cellarleft a sharp metal rod sticking up.

No one saw how Max fell. No cry. Just sudden silence, then screams.

Lucy ran out, nearly lost her mind. Her boy lay at the bottom, the rod jutting from his chest.

Tom arrived first, moving like lightning. He pulled the rod free, carried Max up, tears streaming.

At the hospital, Max needed blood. Theirs didnt match.

“Didnt think to mention hes adopted?” the doctor said coldly. “His bloods rare. No donor, no hope.”

Lucys world collapsed.

Tom gripped her shouldersnot angry, desperate. “Whos his father? Where? Ill beg him myself!”

She sobbed Eds name, address. Tom called an army matenow a cop. Within hours, they had Eds number.

Ed, now a lawyer, arrived pale. “Dont tell my wife,” he kept saying.

Tom glared. “We just need your blood.”

Max lived. No lasting damage.

And LucyLucy saw Tom anew. A man who, knowing the truth, hadnt rejected her. Whod only thought to save the boy. *Her* boy.

The ice around her heart shattered. She loved himtruly, fiercely.

That night, Tom confessed: “I knew, Lu. Knew from the start. But hes my son. And youyoure mine. Always.”

A year later, they had a daughter. Lottie. Tom adored her. Lucy, tookicking herself for denying them this joy.

Now, their home*his* homewas full of peace. Earned. Unshakable.

Max became a surgeon, visits every weekend. Lottie studied journalism.

Lucy never worked again. She became the heart of their home. Still beautiful, still young. Their wealth wasnt moneyit was love, tested and true. Once unnoticed, now cherished every day.