Has He Still Not Called, Mom?” Andrew Asked, Looking at the Woman Seated at the Table with Bare, Vulnerable Eyes.

“Has he still not called, Mum?” asked Andrew, gazing at the woman hunched over the table with bare, pleading eyes.

“No, my dear heart… Your father must be busy. He works so hard over there in Italy.”

“You said Christmas was coming…”

“It is, love. He wrote to me, said hed bring us gifts and take us to the seaside in summer.”

The woman forced a smile, though her heart had long since split in two.

A small pot of potatoes simmered on the stove, while the last of the firewood burned low in the hearth. Emma hugged her children close and whispered a silent prayer:

“Lord, give me the strength not to cry in front of them…”

Once, life had been different.

She and Elijah had burned with young lovemarried too soon, full of hope, with two small children and half a cottage to their name. Elijah was hardworking, but the village offered little.

“Im going to Italy, just for a few years. Ill earn enough, come home, and buy you everything you deserve.”

Emma had wept then.

“Dont go, Elijah…”

“Its for us, woman. Nobody else.”

And so he left.

At first, he called every evening. Sent money, spoke to the children, told Emma he loved her.

Then the calls thinned.

“Too tired no signal working late.”

Then came the lies: “Lost my wallet cant send anything this month.”

Emma believed him. She always believed him.

She worked, raised the children, kept the house.

She scrubbed floors at the school, mended clothes for neighbors, toiled in the fields.

But she never complained.

“Its just a season. When Elijah comes back, everything will be better.”

Three years passed. Elijah did not return.

The children grew.

Andrew was twelve, Mary eight.

The questions came more often:

“Mum is Dad still alive?”

“Of course, love. Its just far away, thats all.”

“What if he never comes back?”

Emma smiled bitterly.

“Then therell be three of us. And well manage.”

One evening, the postman brought a letter.

The words fell like a knife:

*”Emma, dont hate me. Ive met someone else. Im to be married hereIve another life now. Keep the children close. Elijah.”*

The woman stood frozen for minutes.

Then she tore the letter in half and tossed it into the fire.

She wouldnt let them see the pain in her eyes.

“Everything alright, Mum?” Mary asked.

“Fine, my sweet. Your father says hell send money next month.”

But the money never came.

Years flew by.

Emma aged suddenlyher back bent, her hands cracked.

Yet the cottage stayed clean, the garden bloomed, and the children grew up right.

Andrew found work in the city. Mary went to grammar school.

Then, nearly twenty years later, the gate creaked.

Elijah.

Old now, hair white, but well-dressed, a heavy bag in hand.

Emma stepped onto the threshold.

“Evening,” he said softly.

“What do you want here, Elijah?”

“Ive come home.”

She said nothing.

Behind her, Andrew stopped dead, staring.

“Whos this, Mum?”

“Your father.”

Silence.

Sharp, heavy silence.

Andrew crossed his arms.

“To me, youre a stranger.”

“Son, let me explain”

“You had *twenty years* to explain! Childhood, school, hardshipwhere were you?”

Elijah looked down.

“I made a mistake I was a fool.”

“No. You were a coward.”

“Andrew”

“Dont call me that!”

Emma raised a gentle hand.

“Enough. Come in, Elijah.”

He shuffled inside, ashamed. The cottage smelled of soap and fresh bread.

“I dont recognize a thing,” he muttered.

“Life moves on. Only you stood still.”

Elijah tried to meet her gaze.

“Emma, I I was never happy.”

“But you chose it, Elijah.”

“I was young, blind, chasing another woman I thought I could start again.”

“And now?”

“Let me stay. With you. With mine.”

She smiled bitterly.

“With me? After twenty years?”

“Yes. Look, Ive moneywe can fix up the house, live well.”

“I dont want your money. Ive lived with dignity, not pity.”

Elijah fell to his knees.

“Forgive me.”

“I forgave you long ago. But I cant take you back.”

Andrew walked into the yard.

Elijah followed.

“Son, dont hate me.”

“I dont hate you. But I cant love you.”

“Maybe one day”

“Maybe. But not today.”

Elijah left again.

No promises this time.

Only a sack of coins by the gate.

Emma didnt touch it.

Months later, another letter came.

*”Mrs. Emma. Telegram from Italy. Elijah Dumitrescu has passed. No kin. Buried here.”*

Emma looked up at the sky and whispered:

“May God forgive him Wherever he is, I hope he understood what he lost.”

That evening, Andrew returned home.

“Mum I heard.”

“I know, love.”

“Do you think he deserved forgiveness?”

“All men deserve forgiveness. Not all deserve second chances.”

He sighed, watching the fire.

“Was it hard for you, Mum?”

“It was. But I had you. That kept me going.”

Years rolled on.

Mary married. Andrew had children.

Emma stayed in her cottage, quiet now, with old photos and drawings on the walls.

One evening, she opened a drawer.

Inside, a faded picture of Elijah, young and smiling.

“You were my love and my burden. But without you, I learned to be strong.”

The lamp flickered out, leaving her thoughts lost in the dark.

How many women, she wondered, bury their tears in silence, holding up the world alonewhile the men who swore to love them forget the way home?