Margaret had likely been lying there for hours, her eyelids pressed tightly shut. Sleep would have been a welcome escape, but for some reason, it remained out of reach. Memories kept crowding in, refusing to let her rest.
They were more persistent than the constant chill in her feet—a coldness that had set in after her surgery. Now, even in the heat of midsummer, she had to wrap her legs in a heavy wool shawl before she could even think of sleeping.
A small bouquet of dried wildflowers, tucked away like a greeting from the past, sat nearby. They had been gathered nearly a year ago for the summer festival, and now another festival was just days away. So much had changed since then. She was no longer in her own home; she was in a state-run facility. Surrounded by strangers. On the surface, her life was "managed," but her heart ached with a dull weight. Pain twisted through her joints from the inside out, and her fingers were losing their touch.
"You need to stop worrying so much," the doctor told her.
Margaret replied that the problem was something else entirely. For the first time in all these years, she was faced with such a long stretch of doing absolutely nothing.
"It isn't idleness; it's rest," the doctor urged. "A well-deserved rest. Look at it as a reward for so many years of hard labor."
Listening to him, Margaret mostly stayed silent, huddling deeper into her shawl. She was trying to wall herself off from the changes in her life—changes she was told to view as a blessing, though she couldn't bring herself to see them that way.
The doctor suggested she ask for an extra blanket. But what was a blanket compared to her old wood stove? Margaret used to light it even in the summer, if only just a little.
"Why on earth are you lighting a fire in this heat?" her neighbor used to ask.
"As you get older, the body just craves that extra bit of warmth and comfort," she would answer.
"Old? You? You're out in that garden all day and still handling the livestock!"
It was true; Margaret's garden had always been a sight to behold. It was a model of perfection. She kept a cow and poultry, providing everything her children needed. And besides her, there had been no one else to do it.
***
The memories flooded back with renewed force. Here in the nursing home, the nights seemed designed for nothing but wallowing in the past, and those reflections weren't always kind. That was why she often prayed for morning to come quickly. Mornings, afternoons, and evenings were easier; there were walks and people to talk to. But then the agonizingly long, grueling night would begin again. Back in the countryside, the nights had flown by unnoticed. A short sleep, and then back to work. Here, only the memories remained.
She thought of her father. He was a local blacksmith, a blunt man who always said exactly what he thought without a care for the consequences. He used to tell his daughter, "You're going to live your whole life an old maid. Unless, of course, you manage to have a child by someone."
Having spat those words at his own flesh and blood, he would simply go about his business. Margaret had wanted to scream after him, "And how is that my fault? Is it my fault you and Mother gave me this face?"
She once confessed to a friend that she couldn't look at herself in the mirror without a sense of loathing. Her friend had simply replied, "Then don't look. People don't marry a face; they marry a person."
Time marched on. Girls her age got married and had children; those children were already starting school. Meanwhile, she spent her days and nights in solitude. Once, she mentioned to a friend that she was thinking of adopting a child from an orphanage. Her friend had shook her head. "There's nothing like having your own blood."
Margaret understood that all too well. She worked the fields at the local farm, outperforming everyone. One year, on Margaret's birthday, the crew congratulated her right there in the field, handing her a bouquet of whatever wildflowers they could find nearby. The foreman was among them. That day, amidst the rows of crops, she caught a look in a man's eyes that she had never seen directed at her before. She knew exactly what that look meant. And she tried to return it with a look of her own—one with the same meaning, only from a woman's perspective. She tried as best as her total inexperience allowed. And somehow, that evening, the foreman ended up visiting her...
"Margaret, please understand," he said later.
She understood perfectly. He was a respected man in town, a family man. She didn't need anything from him. Except, perhaps, when she realized she was having a son. She named him George, after her father.
She was well aware that she had become the subject of local gossip. Because of that, she made a vow to herself that her little Georgie would grow up with everything the other children had—those born into "proper" families. She worked double shifts at the farm. She raised livestock and vegetables; she sold milk and cream. She fought to ensure her son had decent clothes and good food. She often went hungry herself, wearing her own clothes until they were threadbare.
***
George didn't do well in school, but he managed to get into a university. By then, Margaret was working on borrowed strength. She fell seriously ill and underwent a major operation. The doctors insisted she "retire" from physical labor. But how could she stop when her son was having trouble? He was kicked out of the university for failing his classes. He told her stories of corruption—of how his classmates had to pay under the table for every credit and exam.
"Go on, keep listening to him!" a neighbor remarked sarcastically.
But Margaret only listened to her son. She trusted him completely and never breathed a word of blame.
After being expelled, George had no desire to return to the countryside to help his mother. He spent most of his time with the city friends he'd made during his short stint as a student. His visits home were rare. But during one of those trips, he gave her some good news.
"I've enrolled in a vocational school. I'm going to be an auto mechanic. You have no idea how much they make! I'll be able to take care of both of us."
Margaret was genuinely happy. Her strength and health were fading, and it was high time her son stepped up as the head of the family.
He finished school, but he didn't stay in the trade for long. He told his mother, "The competition is insane. You have to break your back for ten years before you see any real money."
Then he asked for money for a new jacket. He told her he had started seeing a girl and wanted to look like a man of means. His mother gave him the money, of course, never mentioning that she was already dipping into her emergency savings. She wasn't working at the farm anymore; her health wouldn't allow it, and the farm itself was struggling due to the national economic crisis.
"Soon you'll have a daughter-in-law to help you out," George promised.
A daughter-in-law did eventually arrive. Sarah was wonderful: pretty, smart, kind, and hardworking. She came from a good family, too—simple people, but very warm-hearted. However, the young couple didn't want to live in the country. For a while, they crashed with Sarah's parents, but two families in one apartment was cramped and uncomfortable. They rented a room. Then they found out a baby was on the way. George went to his mother again to ask for help. When he learned the savings were gone, he suggested she borrow money from the neighbors.
"I've started a business," he said. "Once the profits start rolling in, we'll pay off all the debts—yours and mine."
As it turned out, George had borrowed a massive sum to start his venture. When Margaret found out, her heart sank, and her eyes instinctively drifted to the icon of the Virgin Mary. How fervently she prayed for protection from ruin!
***
George arrived unexpectedly in the middle of the night. Almost the moment he stepped through the door, he blurted out, "Mom, I'm in danger. I've got huge problems. Please, sell everything you can as fast as possible."
It turned out the business had collapsed. He had one week to pay back the money he had borrowed from some "serious people." The situation was such that failing to pay would mean a catastrophe. A very big one.
"Son, where am I supposed to go?" his mother asked.
In response, she heard only accusations of her being "indifferent," followed by descriptions of what those "serious people" would do if the money wasn't returned on time. She had to sell almost everything, except for a few personal items. And she still had the dried bouquet from the summer festival.
"When you bury me, put these under my head," Margaret told her son.
George took the money and left for the city. She hadn't seen him since. The neighbors took her in, and she lived with them for a month. The stress brought her health problems back to the surface. She needed medical care and better living conditions, but where was she supposed to find them?
The local council head helped out. He used his connections in the county and got Margaret into the nursing home. It wasn't a bad place, but it felt hollow without a family member nearby. She worried constantly about her son. She tried to call him, but his cell phone went straight to voicemail. News of George reached her eventually, though the reports varied. She heard his marriage had fallen apart; Sarah had taken their daughter and moved back in with her parents. Would she ever get to see her granddaughter now?
She heard George's luck was starting to turn, that things were finally looking up for him. Thank God for that. Lately, she only saw her son in her dreams—usually as a little boy, running toward her through a field of golden wheat. People say that dreaming of wheat is a good omen.
She fell asleep for a short while. When she woke, rain was drumming against the window. She tucked the blanket and the shawl more tightly around her chilled feet. Dawn would be coming soon. And that was good. She would spend the whole day waiting for her son. And then another day, and another. That was her job now.
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