A story inspired by the word “aviator” (chosen by my social media followers).
She wasn’t sure she would be able to stand tall and strong much longer. Fear and anxiety were baring down on her; as they had for quite some time.
Every morning she would wake to an empty place in the bed beside her. She would roll over to her side and try her best to will him home. Hoping that if she wished hard enough he would appear, but he never did.
He’d been gone four months now. Every day felt like a week, every week a month. She wasn’t sure she would be able to survive much longer. Why couldn’t he have been placed with the civilian convoys? Why had he been required to fly over enemy territory? Didn’t they know he had children at home? And a wife? Even though she knew many of the men fighting in Europe had families and wives of their own, she couldn’t help being selfish and wishing that someone else would take his place. He’d be able to return home to them. She would know he was safe. And that was all she wanted.
Sighing, she rose and dressed. He wasn’t going to be coming home for a while yet; she would try her best to take care of the house and family.
The children were already up, their noise echoing up the staircase. They were excited, and why shouldn’t they be? She would have been too if her husband had been home, or in the very least she knew he was far away from the Nazi forces.
When she had first learned of the war, she had blamed all Germans. But that was before her love had been deployed. Now she felt for all the women, on both sides, who’s husbands were in danger. At least her family was safe. Her counterparts in Europe were not so lucky. She tried to remind herself of that every time she started to feel exceptionally worried. Her children were safe.
Proceeding downstairs, she walked past the decorated tree without glancing at it. The children were in the kitchen scrounging around for food.
“Stop that,” she said firmly but kindly. “I’ll make us a special breakfast.”
“What are you going to make?” asked the oldest.
“How do pancakes sound? I think we have enough flour left.” What she didn’t tell them, couldn’t tell them, was that would be the end of the flour for a little while.
“Great!” said her youngest.
When breakfast had been polished off the children began to ask to open their presents. Agreeing, they made their way to the living room. There weren’t as many gifts as there had been the previous year. She tried to remind herself that this year was different. Even though she knew the children understood, a part of her still felt sorry.
Shortly, the only gifts left unopened were addressed to “Father”.
“I wish Father could be here instead of flying airplanes in the war,” her oldest said glumly.
“He’ll be back before you know it.” She tried to sound more assured than she felt.
“What should we do with his gifts?” the youngest asked.
“Just leave them there, he can open them when he returns.”
The oldest wiped away a tear, “I miss him.”
“So do I dear, but don’t worry I’m sure he’s safe.”
“Are you positive?” asked her oldest.
“Yes.”
She only hoped that it was true.
There was a knock at the door. Her heart sank.
It had been only yesterday when she had seen the woman across the street receive the news that her son had been killed. Today was a holiday. No one, not even the post man, should be coming around the house. Her throat began to tighten; it could only mean one thing.
Taking a deep breath, trying to stave off the fear, she rose and walked to the door. She glanced over at her children, hand on the door knob. They were looking at her, eyes wide with a mix of curiosity and fear.
Please, oh please don’t let it be them, she willed as she turned the knob. The door opened and the next second she was securely wrapped in an embrace.
The aviator’s wife smiled. “Welcome home.”
nicely done.
Thank you
nicely done.
Thank you
C’est une bonne histoire! Merci.
De rien! Je suis heureux tu l’aime
C’est une bonne histoire! Merci.
De rien! Je suis heureux tu l’aime