**Frayed Bonds: A Tale of Returning to Family Warmth**
Valentine stood in the snow-covered yard, the bitter cold seeping through his thin jacket. He had quarrelled with his wife, Catherine, and for a week now, he’d been staying at his father’s place at the other end of the village, Redhill. That morning, while Catherine was away at the market, Valentine crept back to his own home like a thief, his heart pounding with resentment and regret. He pushed open the barn door and released his geese into the powdery snow. The birds burst into excited honking, and the old gander waddled up to him, stretching out his long neck as if embracing him. Just then, Catherine and their daughter, Annie, returned from the market.
“Well now! Love and hugs!” Annie exclaimed, her eyes shining. “Dad, are you back?”
Valentine said nothing, casting a dark glance at his wife.
“Hungry?” Catherine asked softly, studying him. “We’ve got a feast today—or have you forgotten?”
“What are you talking about?” Valentine grumbled, baffled.
Valentine and Catherine had been married for sixteen years. They lived in the picturesque village of Redhill, where forests and lakes made it seem like a fairytale. The river winding past their street tempted him with fishing, and the beauty of the countryside had kept them from moving to the city, where Catherine’s parents still lived.
Valentine was a local. His father, Michael, lived nearby, alone, ever since the death of his wife, who had passed before their son’s wedding. Pity for his lonely father had convinced Valentine to persuade Catherine to stay in the village. She loved their cosy cottage, bought with wedding money, and threw herself into making it a home—tending the garden, arranging the house just so.
Valentine often visited his father, who still mourned his wife. Sometimes they drank together, which always sparked arguments. Michael swore he’d change, but Valentine still found him with a bottle. They’d quarrel, make peace before his mother’s portrait on the wall, yet the grief remained.
“Maybe he ought to find a woman,” Catherine once suggested.
“He won’t hear of it,” Valentine replied.
“Not until he drinks himself into the grave,” she sighed.
Time passed. Michael worked, kept his house in order, and Valentine helped. But the rows with Catherine grew worse. She couldn’t accept her husband drinking with his father.
“You used to scold him for it!” she’d snap. “Now you’re just as bad!”
Valentine would fall silent, blaming his father’s loneliness, but Catherine wouldn’t relent. Some days, he’d storm off to his father’s for a night or two. The neighbours whispered:
“There goes Valentine, running from his wife again. How long this time?”
He’d stay, helping with chores, then return with little gifts for Annie. She’d throw her arms around him, and Catherine’s anger would soften.
“If it weren’t for her, I’d give you a piece of my mind!” she’d mutter, but soon Valentine would embrace her, lend a hand, and peace would return.
Then one day, Catherine saw him with friends outside the pub, beer in hand, and lost her temper.
“Enough! Annie sees you like this—she’s only ten! What kind of father will she remember?” she shouted. “Go to your father’s, and if you don’t change, don’t bother coming back!”
Furious, Valentine packed a bag and left.
“D’you think she means it?” Michael wondered. “She’ll cool off—same as always. How’ll she manage the house without you?”
“Dunno,” Valentine muttered, pouring himself a drink. “Left the dog and the cat, too.”
“You’re a good man,” Michael said. “She doesn’t appreciate you. Everyone enjoys a drink now and then—what’s the harm? You bring home your wages!”
Valentine nodded, but his heart ached for home. Some evenings, he’d sneak back, peering through windows, stroking the dog that licked his hands eagerly.
“Back, are you?” Catherine called out once, stepping into the yard. “Missed the dog?”
“At least she doesn’t nag me,” he shot back.
He took the dog with him. Days later, she gave birth to four pups.
“What’ll you do with them all?” Michael asked.
“Find good homes,” Valentine said.
Annie visited, petting and feeding the puppies.
“Dad… are you staying away for long?” she asked once. “It’s scary without the dog—”
“And your father’s not missed?” he replied bitterly. “How’s your mother? Give her my regards.”
“Come tell her yourself,” Annie huffed and left.
One Sunday, while Catherine was at the market, Valentine went home. He opened the barn and freed the geese—five females and the gander. They honked joyfully, and the gander stretched his neck around Valentine like an embrace. Then Catherine and Annie returned, watching.
“Now that’s love!” Annie laughed. “Dad, are you home for good?”
Valentine stayed silent, his eyes on Catherine. She, flushed from the cold, looked strangely calm.
“Hungry?” she asked. “We’ve a feast today. Forgotten?”
“What?” he frowned.
Then it dawned on him—their anniversary!
“Of course!” he breathed. “Let me fetch my father, alright?”
“Of course,” Catherine smiled. “Just family today.”
Valentine turned to leave, the gander waddling after.
“Not you, old friend,” he chuckled. “Stay put—I’ll be back.”
The meal was warm, full of laughter. No ale, just salads, roast, and cake.
“Well, we’re older now,” Catherine said. “Ought to stick together, take care of each other.”
Her eyes shone as she watched her husband and father-in-law eat heartily.
“Kate,” Valentine began, “I want to promise—no more wandering. Done with that. I swear it—before Annie, too. Things’ll be right.”
“My fault as well,” Michael added quietly. “We’ll do better, both of us.”
“That’s the spirit,” Catherine smiled. “Children shouldn’t see such things.”
“Aye,” Valentine agreed—then froze. “But we’ve no son.”
“Not yet,” she said, mysterious. “But in seven months, perhaps.”
Valentine bolted up. “Really? You—”
“Really,” she nodded. “Time to straighten up for the new one.”
Annie squealed. “Even if it’s another sister, I don’t mind!”
That night, the family reunited. Valentine’s only regret was that Catherine asked him to keep the pregnancy quiet. But soon, her shape told the tale. To her surprise, both he and Michael stopped drinking, fixing up the nursery instead.
By summer, the baby arrived—dark-haired, loud, the image of Valentine. Annie doted on her brother, helping her mother. Even Michael begged to babysit, making them all laugh.
“Wait till he’s steadier,” Catherine teased.
Yet soon, she trusted him with the pram. Proudly, Michael whispered to neighbours about his grandson—how he ate, slept, how fine he was. The women joked:
“You ought to be a father yourself, Michael!”
“Who’d have me?” he’d wave them off. “Twice a granddad now!”
But at the baby’s first birthday, Michael arrived with a woman his own age—an old friend, newly rekindled. So it happened that Valentine’s father found new happiness.
The quarrels were rarely mentioned. Once, Catherine told a neighbour:
“Valentine doesn’t stray now. Too busy teaching his boy. Michael’s the same—both wrapped around that child’s finger.”
The storm had passed. Was it the baby binding them, or had they simply grown wiser? The neighbours gossiped, but in the end, all that mattered was the warmth in that house, where love was enough.
