Step Back! I Never Promised to Marry You! Besides, I Don’t Even Know Whose Child This Is!

Step back! he roared. I never vowed to marry you! And I dont even know whose baby this is.

Maybe it isnt mine at all. Then waltz away, and Ill go my own way, Victor said to the stunned Gwen, his voice echoing like a cracked bell in an empty chapel.

Gwen stood frozen, unable to trust either her ears or her eyes. Was this the Victor who had once cradled her in his arms? Or was it Tom, the boy who used to call her sweetheart and promise her heavenly feasts?

Before her, a halfconfused, halfangry stranger lingered, a man who felt foreign even to himself. Gwen wept for a week, waving a farewell to Tom with a trembling hand.

At thirtyfive, her youth wilted like an autumn leaf, and with a bleak hope of ever finding a womans happiness, she decided to give birth.

In the appointed time she delivered a shrill little girl and named her Molly.

Molly grew up quiet as a pond, troublefree, never demanding from her mother. It seemed she understood that whether she shouted or whispered, nothing would move the world.

Gwen cared for her daughter enough to feed and clothe her, even to buy toys, but the simple acts of hugging, kissing, strolling handinhand never materialised. The instinct to nurture seemed to have slipped through the cracks of Gwens mind.

When Molly turned seven, an unexpected event unfolded: Gwen met a man. She even invited him into her cottage, and the whole hamlet of Littleford buzzed with gossip. What a reckless woman, Gwen! they muttered over pints at the inn.

The newcomer was a drifter, without a steady job, his origins a mysteryperhaps even a swindler. He helped unload crates of goods at the village shop where Gwen worked, and over the clatter of timber a romance sparked.

Soon Gwen announced that the stranger, now called George, would live with them. Neighbours condemned her for bringing an unknown man into their midst. They whispered about the silent boy he kept, suspecting hidden motives.

Gwen ignored the chatter, as if she sensed this might be her final chance at a womans happiness.

The villages opinion shifted when George began fixing things. The house that had fallen into disrepairits porch sagging, roof leaking, fence toppledfound new life under his hands. He mended the porch, patched the roof, rebuilt the fence, and each day a new piece of the home was restored.

People started to ask for his help. If youre old or destitute, Ill lend a hand, hed say. Otherwise, pay me in cash or provisions. He collected pounds, tins of beans, cuts of meat, eggs, and milk.

Gwens garden thrived, though she owned no livestock; without George shed rarely pampered Molly with cream or fresh milk. Now the fridge brimmed with butter, fresh milk, and even a jug of clotted cream. Georges hands were, as the locals said, as good as goldhe was a carpenter, a mason, a fiddler, all at once.

Gwen, never considered a beauty, began to glow beside him, her skin softening, her smile widening. She grew gentler toward Molly, whose cheeks now bore tiny dimples. Molly, in turn, started school.

One afternoon, Molly perched on the garden wall, watching George work, his hands moving as if guided by some unseen rhythm. Later she wandered to the neighbours house, and when she finally returned at dusk, she stood frozen at the gate.

In the middle of the yard rose a set of swaying swings, their chains humming in the breeze, beckoning her. Are those for me, Uncle George? she gasped, eyes wide. Did you make these swings for me?

Yes, Molly, theyre yours. Take them and enjoy! George chuckled, his usual gruffness softened by the moment.

Molly hopped onto the swing, soaring back and forth as the wind whistled in her ears; no happier child could be found in all the whitewashed world.

George rose early to work, and he took over the kitchen, cooking breakfasts and luncheons, baking pies and casseroles with a skill that seemed to bloom from the very soil of his silence.

He taught Molly to cook, to set a table, to stir a pot as if it were a spell. When winter shortened the days, George escorted her from school, carrying her satchel, telling stories of his own lifehow he cared for a sick mother, sold his flat to keep her alive, how a brother had driven him out of his own home through deceit, and how closeknit families could be both cruel and kind.

In summer dawns they walked together to the river, sitting patiently for a bite, learning patience in the still water. He later bought Molly her first childs bicycle, teaching her to ride, soothing bruised knees with ointment when she fell.

Dont let her break, her mother muttered once. She must learn to fall and rise again. George answered firmly, She will.

On New Years Eve George gifted Molly a pair of real childrens skates. That night the family gathered around a table laid out by George and Molly, glasses clinking, laughter ringing. In the early morning, the house woke to Mollys shrill cry: Skates! I have skates! White and new! Thank you, thank you! Tears of joy streamed down her face as she clutched the skates to her chest.

The next day George and Molly trudged to the frozen river, clearing snow from the ice. He taught her to glide, holding her hand until she could stand steady. When she finally glided without falling, she shouted with triumph, then turned to George and whispered, Thank you, Father

Georges eyes filled with tears of gratitude, which he wiped away quickly, lest Molly see. The tears froze into tiny crystals in the frosty air.

Molly grew up, left for college in the city, faced the usual hardships of life. George was always therehe attended her graduation, delivered groceries to her flat so that his daughter would never go hungry, and later stood beside her as she walked down the aisle, his silhouette framed by the hospital windows when she gave birth to her own children.

He watched over his grandchildren, loving them with a tenderness that sometimes eluded even their own parents. Eventually, as all things must, he passed on. At his funeral, Molly stood with her mother, a handful of earth slipping through her fingers, and whispered, Goodby, Father You were the best father anyone could have. I will always remember you.

George remained in her heart forevernot merely as Uncle George or stepfather, but as a true father. For a father is not always the one who births you, but the one who raises you, shares your sorrow and joy, and stands beside you through the surreal, shifting dream of life.