Author's Note: If you haven't read my earlier story, "The Piper", I'd suggest reading that one first or else I fear you may be a mite confused. The characters belong to L. M. Montgomery, not to me. No profit is being derived from this except the pleasure of writing.
This story takes place in 1938.
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It is her birthday, and she is forty-two.
She thinks, as she sits by the window and drinks her morning cup of tea, about that day exactly five years ago, when she was happier than she had ever thought possible, the day when the man who she had loved for so many years told her that he loved her.
It had been a good day.
There are still good days. Many of them. And even the days that aren't as good have good parts to them. But she hadn't realized, five years before, how hard this was all going to be. She hadn't realized that Walter would still wake up from nightmares on a regular basis. She hadn't realized—and neither had he—that the injuries gained in the War would have long-lasting effects. She hadn't realized that there would be weeks at a time where he would be lost in deep depression, thinking of the horrors he had seen in battle.
They had stayed at the Hopetown Asylum for three years after their marriage. She had enjoyed the work, and so had he, but there came a time when it was too much stress for both of them. He became ill from overwork, and she thought she was going to lose him at one point. So she resigned from the Asylum. Elma Madison took over her position. She still writes long, newsy letters about all the children.
They didn't know what they would do for money at first, but it turned out that Walter qualified for a Veteran's Allowance from the Royal Canadian Legion. So they moved back to the Island—not to the Glen, but to a little cottage on the North Shore. She wishes that they could have returned to the Glen, but she understands. People there have long memories and are not always kind. Besides, the Glen is haunted with ghosts of long ago, the ghosts of carefree children.
You could write a poem about that, she said once, half in jest.
Some things touch too deep even for poems, he told her.
They visit, though. It is always good to visit, even though Faith is going grey and all the children are growing taller by the minute, it seems. But the Glen is still home, and Rainbow Valley still has mayflowers in the spring.
She would have liked children of their own. All the rest of the family has children. Even Di and Philip finally had a little girl after ten years of marriage. Shirley has two—his stepdaughter Marigold and a baby boy. She wonders, sometimes, why she can't have children—does the problem lie with her or with Walter? Not that it matters—she supposes that it was just as well.
She caught herself wondering once if she and Shirley would have had children. The fact that such a thought even crossed her mind shocks her. She has no regrets about not marrying Shirley, but she wonders what it would be like to be someone's mother. After much contemplation, she decides that it's much better to be someone's wife…but she still wishes for a child to hold in her arms some days.
She is finishing her tea now, and Walter comes inside with a bouquet of mayflowers.
Happy birthday, he tells her, handing her the flowers and a piece of paper. I wrote you a poem.
She reads the sonnet, amazed that words come so easily to him. There are tears dotting the mayflowers now, but they are tears of joy.
I love you, he says.
I know, she tells him. I love you, too.
It is her birthday, and she is forty-two.