Has He Still Not Called, Mum?” Asked Andrew, Gazing at the Woman Seated at the Table with Helpless Eyes.

**Diary Entry 23rd December, 1985**

*”Has he still not called, Mum?” asked Andrew, staring at the woman sitting at the table with helpless eyes.*

*”No, my love… Your father must be busy. Hes working hard over there in Italy.”*

*”You said Christmas was coming soon…”*

*”It is, it truly is. He wrote to mesaid hes bringing gifts and that next summer, hell take us to the seaside.”*

*She forced a smile, though her heart split in two.*

*A small pot of potatoes simmered on the stove, and in the hearth, the last of the firewood burned low. Emily wrapped her arms around her children and prayed silently:*

*”Lord, give me the strength not to cry in front of them.”*

*Once, life had been different.*

*She and William had loved fiercely. Theyd been young, brimming with hope, with two small children and half a cottage to call their own.*

*William was hardworking, but the village offered little.*

*”Im going to Italyjust a few years. Ill earn enough, come home, and buy you everything you deserve.”*

*Emily had wept then.*

*”Dont go, William…”*

*”Its for us, love. For no one else.”*

*And so he left.*

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

*Then, the calls dwindled.*

*”Im tired. No signal. Working late.”*

*Then came the lies: “Lost my walletcant send anything this month.”*

*Emily believed him. She always had.*

*She worked, raised the children, kept the home. She scrubbed floors at the school, mended clothes for neighbours, tended the garden. Never complained.*

*”Its just a season. When William returns, all will be well.”*

*Three years passed. William did not come home.*

*The children grew. Andrew turned twelve, Mary was eight. Questions came more often:*

*”Mum… is Dad still alive?”*

*”Of course, darling. Its just so far away.”*

*”What if he never comes back?”*

*Emily smiled bitterly.*

*”Then itll be the three of us. And well be enough.”*

*One evening, the postman brought a letter. Words fell like a blade:*

*”Emily, dont hate me. Ive met someone else. Im marrying here, starting anew. Keep the children safe. William.”*

*She stood motionless. Then tore the letter in half and tossed it into the fire.*

*She wouldnt let them see her pain.*

*”What was that, Mum?” Mary asked.*

*”Nothing, sweetheart. Your father said hed send money next month.”*

*But no money ever came.*

*Years flew by. Emily aged too soonher back bent, hands rough. Yet the cottage stayed clean, the garden bloomed, and the children grew kind.*

*Andrew took work in the city; Mary finished school.*

*Then, nearly twenty years later, the gate creaked.*

*William stood theregrey-haired, well-dressed, a suitcase in hand.*

*Emily stepped onto the porch.*

*”Good evening,” he said softly.*

*”What do you want, William?”*

*”Ive come… home.”*

*Silence.*

*Andrew appeared behind her, staring coldly.*

*”Whos this, Mum?”*

*”Your father.”*

*A heavy quiet filled the air.*

*Andrew crossed his arms.*

*”Youre a stranger to me.”*

*”Son, let me explain”*

*”You had twenty years to explain! My childhood, my struggleswhere were you?”*

*William looked down.*

*”I was a fool.”*

*”No. You were a coward.”*

*”Andrew”*

*”Dont call me that!”*

*Emily raised a hand.*

*”Enough. Come in, William.”*

*He stepped inside, shame-faced. The air smelled of clean linen and fresh bread.*

*”Nothings changed,” he muttered.*

*”Life went on. Only you stood still.”*

*William met her gaze.*

*”Emily, I was never happy.”*

*”You chose that.”*

*”I was young, blindthought I could start again.”*

*”What do you want now?”*

*”Let me stay. With you. With my family.”*

*She laughed softly.*

*”After twenty years?”*

*”Ive moneywe could fix the house, live well.”*

*”I dont need your money. I lived with dignity, not pity.”*

*William fell to his knees.*

*”Forgive me.”*

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

*Andrew walked into the yard. William followed.*

*”Dont hate me, son.”*

*”I dont. But I cant love you either.”*

*”Maybe one day”*

*”Maybe. But not today.”*

*William left againno promises this time. He left a bag of money by the gate. Emily never touched it.*

*Months later, another letter arrived.*

*”Mrs. Emily, telegram from Italy.”*

*Three stark lines:*

*”William Hartley deceased. No kin. Buried abroad.”*

*Emily looked to the sky and whispered:*

*”May God forgive him. Maybe now he sees what he lost.”*

*That evening, Andrew came home.*

*”Mum… I heard.”*

*”I know, love.”*

*”Do you think he deserved forgiveness?”*

*”Everyone deserves forgiveness. Not everyone deserves a second chance.”*

*He sighed, watching the fire.*

*”Was it hard for you, Mum?”*

*”Hard. But I had you. That kept me going.”*

*More years passed. Mary married. Andrew had children. Emily stayed in her cottage, surrounded by old photographs and the quiet hum of memories.*

*One night, she opened a drawer. Inside lay a faded picture of Williamyoung, smiling.*

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

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

*How many women, I wonder, bury their tears in silenceholding up the world alonewhile the men who swore to love them forget the way home?*