A Widow’s Child, A Wife’s Goodbye
By the third year of my marriage to Daniel Hawthorne, the war had already taken more than it ever returned, and this time it took his younger brother, Thomas Hawthorne.
My sister-in-law, Eleanor, collapsed, and in the weeks that followed she tried to follow her husband into death—
once with sleeping pills, once by the river beyond the officers’ quarters—
only to be dragged back both times, each time clinging to me afterward as though I were the last thing keeping her grounded.
I stayed with her, wiped her tears, and whispered that Thomas would want her to live, until the day she received the test results confirming she was three months pregnant, and the grief of losing her husband was slowly softened by the arrival of new life.
I smiled too, believing grief had finally loosened its grip.
That night, holding my own pregnancy test in my hand and thinking it was finally time to tell Daniel, I passed the study and heard his friend say quietly,
“She’s carrying your child. You convinced the doctors to adjust the timeline so everyone would believe the baby belonged to your brother. Aren’t you afraid Margaret will find out?”
Daniel didn’t hesitate.
“She won’t,” he said calmly. “She loves me. She wouldn’t leave. I won’t let her know.”
I didn’t step inside.
I didn’t confront him.
Instead, I opened the letter I had received weeks earlier—
an official deployment order from the international medical corps, assigning me to a frontline war zone—
and tapped Accept.