Worn Down by the Mother-in-Law and the Wife: That Night, the Most Stoic Man in Our Village—Steadfast Stephen—Came to My Countryside Surgery, Silent and Broken, Longing to Walk Away from the Nagging, Until a Kind Word Proved the Best Medicine for a Weary Soul

Fed up with the mother-in-law and the wife

That evening, the quietest, most stoic fellow in all our village paid me a visitRichard Wilkins. You know the sort: the kind you could forge nails from. He stood tall, broad-shouldered, hands calloused from years in the field, eyes calm and ancient, like a still pond in the middle of autumn woods. Richard hardly ever spoke out of turn, never once besought pity. Whatever needed mendinga leaky roof, a sagging fence, or splitting logs for old Mrs. MoffatRichard would just appear, fix it in silence, nod, and amble away.

But this time, he arrived I remember it as if from a strange, drifting dream. My surgery door creaked open so softly you’d think the November breeze had slipped in. There he was, hovering at the threshold, cap twisting between his knuckles, gaze sunk to the scuffed wooden floor. His coat dripped from the persistent drizzle, boots caked with cold, English mud. He appeared shrunken, hunchedlike something in him had snapped. My heart dropped right to my slippers.

Come in, Richard, youll catch your death lingering out there, I called, gentle as I could, setting the kettle to boil on my old Aga. I know, sometimes ailments are best soothed with a strong cup of tea sprinkled with lavender.

He sat, barely perching on the edge of my examining couch, head bowed. Silence stretched, broken only by the exaggerated ticking of the grandfather clocktick, tock, tick, tockcounting down the seconds between the words he wasnt saying. The quiet was heavier than a raised voice, filling the little room until it hummed. I poured out a scalding mug of tea, pressed it gently into his trembling, icy hands.

He clung to the cup, lifted it towards cracked lips but his fingers shuddered so the tea rippled over the rim. And then, down his unshaven, windswept cheek crept a single, solid tear, heavy as melted iron. Another followed, but not a whimper did he make, not a groan. Just sat with silent, streaming grief, tears vanishing into his stubble.

Im leaving, Mrs. Simmons, he breathed so low I scarcely caught it. Thats it. Cant go on. No more strength in me.

I slid onto the couch beside him, my rough, old hand covering his. He flinched but didnt pull away.

Leaving who, Richard?

My lot, he muttered, voice muffled. The wife, Helen the mother-in-law. Theyve driven me past bearing, Mrs. Simmons. Pecked me raw. Like a pair of magpies. Whatever I donothings right. Make stew while Helens at the dairytoo salty, youve butchered the carrots. Hang a shelfcrooked, every other man can drill straight, but you? Dig the veg patchnot deep enough, left weeds everywhere. Day after day, year on year. Not a kind word. Only nettle stings and sighs.

He grew quiet, sipped from his tea.

Im no lord of the manor, Mrs. Simmons. I know lifes not easy. Helen works herself flat at the dairy, comes home worn and crabby. Edna, the mother-in-law, shes got those bad legs, sits all day glowering at the world. I know, I do. I get up first thing, stoke the fire, fetch water, feed the stock. Then off to work. At night, nothing I do pleases them. Say a word backits a week of shouting. Keep silentworse! Why so tight-lipped? Cooked up some plan, have you? The soul, Mrs. Simmons, its not made of iron. It gets tired.

Richard sat, gaze fixed on the little blue flame in my fireplace, words finally tumblinghe spoke like a broken dam. He told of weeks without a word exchangeda shadow in his own house. Of whispers behind backs. Of jars of honey hidden for themselves. Of the time he splashed out on a feathered shawl for Helens birthday with his Christmas bonus, and she lobbed it in the chest: Should have bought yourself boots instead, you shame us with your old ones.

There he sat, this burly, powerful man who could wrestle a bull, reduced to a silent, weeping stray. In that moment, a deep sorrow knotted itself inside me.

I built that house with my own hands, he whispered. Every timber, every nail. Thought itd be a nest. A family. Instead… its a cage. And the birds in it are vicious. Today Helens mum started again: Door creaks, keeps me awake. Youre no proper man, just an accident. I grabbed the hatchet to fix the hinge, found myself staring at the old apple tree… and a dreadful thought filled my head. Barely shook it off. Threw some bread in a sack and came here. Ill doss down somewhere tonight and tomorrow, off to the station, wherever the wind blows me. Maybe then theyll say something kindwhen its too late.

Thats when I realised this was no ordinary despair. Not simple weariness. At that moment, his soul was shrieking for help on the very edge. I couldnt let him walk into that rainy night.

Right, Wilkins, I said, brisk as a March wind. Dry those tears. Its not right to run off. Did you think about what will happen to them? Helen cant run the farm by herself. Wholl care for Edna with her bad legs? Youre responsible for them.

And whos responsible for me, Mrs. Simmons? He looked down, a bitter smile twisting. Wholl show me any pity?

I will, I said firmly. And Ill treat you, too. What ails you is worn soul syndrome. Only one remedy. Listen and do as I say: Tonight, go home, silent as a shadow. Whatever they throwjust take it in silence. Dont meet their eyes. Go straight to bed, turn your back to the room. In the morning, Ill be at your doorstep. Youre not to go anywhere. Understood?

Scepticism clouded his face, but a tiny spark of hope flickered in his eyes. He drained his tea, nodded, left without a backward glance into the sodden dusk. I sat long by the embers, wondering what kind of healer I was if the simplest curea gentle wordwas one folk so often denied each other.

At break of day, I was already rapping at their garden gate. Helen opened up, face pinched and red-eyed from a bad nights sleep.

What do you want, Mrs. Simmons, at this hour?

Ive come to see your Richard, I told her, stepping inside past her grumbling.

The house felt cold, raw. Edna sat hunched on the bench, thick shawl tight, scowling through me. Richard lay on the bed facing the wall, exactly as Id instructed.

No use fussing over him, fit as a fiddle, just lazing about, Edna spat. Should be working, not lying about.

I checked his brow, even pressed my stethoscope out of habit. His jaw tensed beneath the skin.

Standing upright, I addressed them both, stern as a schoolmaster.

Youre in a bad way, girls. Mortal bad. Richards hearts taut as twisted string. His nerves worn to threads. Push him even a bit more and itll snap. Then youll be left on your own.

They traded a look. Surprise on Helens face; suspicion glittered in Ednas eyes.

Dont be daft, Mrs. Simmons, Edna snorted. He split a cord of logs yesterday, didnt he?

That was yesterday, I cut in. Today hes on the brink. Youve ground him down with endless fault-finding. Thought he was made of stone, did you? Hes flesh and bloodwith a soul, and right now its broken. Ive prescribed a treatment: absolute rest. Not a finger lifted around the house. Peace and quietunderstood? No grumbling, no harsh words. Only care and gentleness. Cosset him like hes a glass vase. Feed him broth, tuck him in warm. Or Ill have to send him to the city hospital, and you knowsome never come back from there.

I meant it, and I saw real, sticky fear shimmering there. For all their squabbling, Richard was their wall. Their silent strength. The idea of losing that wall chilled them to the core.

Helen inched to the bed, uncertain, touched his shoulder. Ednas lips set in a tight line, eyes darting about as if seeking escape.

I let them stew in their fright and left, waiting.

Later, Richard told me that for the first few days, the house was hushed as a vicarage. They tiptoed, whispered. Helen brought bowls of soup, placed them by his bedside, vanished. Edna crossed his back with a nervous blessing as she passed by. No scolding, only awkward silence.

Then slowly, the ice began to melt. One morning Richard woke to the smell of baked appleshis favourite, spiced with cinnamon, just like his mum used to make. He turned, and there was Helen perched on a footstool, peeling an apple. When she spotted his gaze, she jumped.

Eat up, Rich, she muttered. Still warm.

For the first time in years, he saw care in her eyes. Awkward, clumsy, but sincere.

A day later Edna shuffled in, plopped a pair of woolly socks on the bed.

Keep your feet warm, she muttered, softer than usual. Cold creeps through that window.

Richard stared at the ceiling, and for the first time in memory, sensed he wasnt invisible in his own home. He was wanted. Not just for his strong arms, but as a man whose absence would be felt.

A week passed. I dropped by again. The transformation was palpable. The house glowed with warmth and the scent of fresh bread. Richard sat at table, pale but alert. Helen poured out milk, while Edna slid a plate of scones his way. They didnt coo over each other, no, but all the same the sharp, chilly tension had gone. It had melted away.

Richard caught my eye, and there in his gaze was the settled gratitude of a man whod weathered a storm. He smileda slow, rare, genuine smilethat seemed to fill the whole house with light. Helen, seeing it, smiled shyly back. Edna turned to the window, but I caught her brushing a tear with her handkerchief.

I never had to visit again. They became each others cure. No, they didnt become a perfect family. And Edna, out of habit, still grumbled at times, and Helen sometimes snapped from tiredness. But there was a change. Edna would soon make him tea with jam after a scold, and Helen, after a quarrel, would pat his shoulder in apology. They learned to see not each other’s faults, but the person beneatha weary, loved one.

Sometimes, passing their cottage on a dusky lane, I see all three out on the benchRichard tinkering with a birdhouse, the women shelling peas and humming together. Theres a peace therea peace made of simple things: the smell of apple pie, the warmth of thickly knitted socks, and the certainty that you belong. That youre needed.

So tell me, then, my dearswhich heals deeper: a bitter pill or a kindly word whispered at the right moment? And do you think sometimes a fright is needed, if only to remind us of all the treasures we hold, quietly, at home?