*The Unwanted One Who Became Family*
The trial of the outsider in the family was led by the eldest daughter, Charlotte. Bitter, lonely, with a sharp tongue and a heavy gaze, by thirty she had become a scourge to men. Dissatisfied with her husband and her life, when her brother brought home a wife, she was the first to tear her apart:
*”An intruder.”*
She spat the words like poison.
The younger sister, plump and cheerful Emily, stifled a giggle behind her hands. Their mother stayed silent, but her pursed lips and cold stare made it clear—she wasn’t fond of the new bride either. And why would she be? Her only son, the family’s hope, had returned from service not with a degree or fortune, but with a wife. A wife with no past, no family, not a penny to her name. Rumours said she grew up in care—or perhaps drifting between strangers’ homes. He dodged questions with jokes:
*”We’ll make our way, Mum, don’t fret.”*
But who could laugh? What if she was a thief? Or worse—a con artist? There were plenty of those about.
From that day on, Margaret—the mother—couldn’t sleep. She lay awake at night, listening for the *”intruder”* rifling through drawers. The daughters only stoked her fears:
*”Mum, you ought to hide your things. Coats, rings. Or one morning we’ll wake up and she’ll be gone.”*
They tormented Tom, too:
*”What kind of woman have you dragged in? No roots, no name. Nothing to her at all!”*
Yet they had to live with it. Margaret’s home was sturdy, the farm thriving—thirty acres, pigs, chickens beyond counting. Work enough for three. But Rose—the bride—never complained. Tending the garden, the animals, cooking, cleaning—she did it all quietly, diligently, with respect for the mistress of the house.
But Margaret wasn’t moved. A mother’s heart stayed shut. On the first day, she said coolly:
*”Call me Mrs. Hadley. I’ve daughters enough. You’re a stranger here.”*
From then on, Rose obeyed—never hearing her own name, only orders.
The sisters needled her endlessly. A misplaced word, and they’d whisper:
*”Look, she’s at the cupboards again!”*
Margaret sometimes reined them in—not out of kindness, but for peace. The girl wasn’t lazy. She bore the load alone. And slowly, despite herself, Margaret thawed.
It might have ended well, had Tom not taken to drink.
The shame gnawed at him—mother and sisters chanting, *”Who did you marry?”* Then Charlotte stoked the fire: she introduced him to a friend. He started vanishing. The sisters gloated:
*”Now the intruder will leave on her own.”*
Rose withered, her eyes dim, but she endured.
Then thunder struck—she was pregnant. And Tom demanded a divorce.
*”No,”* said his mother. *”I didn’t pick your wife, but you married her—live with it! Leave if you must. Rose stays.”*
For the first time in years, Margaret used her name. The sisters fell silent.
Tom raged:
*”I’m the man here—I decide!”*
His mother retorted:
*”A man? You’re just a lad in trousers. You’ll be a man when you raise that child right.”*
Tom slammed the door. Rose stayed. And she bore a daughter—Maggie.
When Margaret heard the name, she said nothing—only her eyes glistened.
Tom never came home. But Margaret doted on her granddaughter—gifts, sweets. For Rose, no blame, no kindness either.
Ten years passed. The daughters married, the house emptied. Only Margaret, Rose, and Maggie remained.
Tom went up North, and a widowed soldier—steady, with his own home—started courting Rose. She refused—it felt wrong.
But he wasn’t a fool—he came himself.
*”I love Rose. I can’t live without her.”*
Margaret listened.
*”Love her, then. But Maggie isn’t shifting between strangers. You live here.”*
Neighbours gasped:
*”She’s lost her mind! Thrown out her son, let the intruder bring in another man!”*
Margaret never explained. Proud. Silent.
Rose had a second daughter—Katie. And Margaret adored them both. Though… what was Katie to her? Nothing. Yet hearts don’t obey.
Then disaster came unannounced. Rose fell gravely ill. Her husband crumbled, drank. Margaret emptied her savings, hauled her to doctors. It was no use.
One morning, Rose felt better—asked for broth. Margaret butchered a chicken, boiled it.
Rose couldn’t eat. She wept. And for the first time—so did Margaret.
*”Must you go, now I’ve only just loved you?”*
She wiped her tears.
*”Don’t fear for the girls. I’ll not let harm touch them.”*
Rose died. Margaret raised the girls alone.
Another decade passed. Maggie wed. Charlotte and Emily came—aged, childless.
Tom appeared too—abandoned by his wife, hungover. Seeing his daughter—radiant—he mumbled:
*”Never thought I’d have one so…”*
Then he learned she called another man *Father*. He erupted:
*”This is your fault, Mother! Letting a stranger into our home!”*
Margaret answered calmly:
*”No, son. You’re not her father. Still just a lad in trousers.”*
Tom left. For good.
Maggie named her son after his stepfather—Alexander.
They buried Margaret beside Rose. Come spring, a birch sprouted between their graves. No one planted it. It just… wandered in. Like Rose once had. A farewell—or forgiveness.