Unhappily Together

In a town with scarce choices, my marriage was more a contract than a courtship, dictated by necessity and my father's insistence on heirs. We had a daughter first, then a son. With that, I considered my obligations fulfilled and turned my attention to the estate, leaving little room for matters of the heart.

Whispers followed me. "Unhappily Together," they echoed in the corridors, murmured by the maids. I met them with a sharp retort, "Mind your own damn business!" but the words lingered, a constant murmur in the background of my life.

It was Peter, the younger, who first dared to breach the walls I had built.

"You have no love for mother?" His question, simple yet loaded, caught me off guard. Before I could muster a defense, Sasha, his sister, drew us into an embrace, a silent acknowledgment of the chasm between us. "You'll understand about obligations when you grow up," I muttered.

Over time, their mother, undeterred by convention, took to teaching, instilling in our children a wisdom I had overlooked. I sneered at this then, but Peter and Sasha found time to visit her in school.

"Do you know the Velveteen Rabbit?" Peter once asked me. It was during one of our rare family gatherings that Peter shared the story of the Velveteen Rabbit, a narrative about love's power to transform and make real a worn-out toy. I smiled at his story.

During his teens, the war took Peter, his letters home a facade of bravery masking his underlying fear. Sasha remained, her presence a constant, gentle nudge towards a semblance of balance.

Peter returned from the war altered, his spirit dimmed by his experiences. Yet, in moments with Sasha, the shadow of his former self would occasionally reappear.

"I understand about obligations, Father," Sasha once cried angrily at me. "I understand it every time I see Peter!"

I felt a pang at this. In a fleeting impulse for unity, I suggested a family portrait.

As we fidgeted before taking the picture, I placed my hand on Peter's shoulder, leaned over to him, and said, "My son, you are not worn out. You are loved, after all." He turned to me, confused at first, then nodded.

The resulting image, now hanging in the main hall, captured our complex interrelations, a silent testament to the unspoken bonds and tensions among us.

In my later years, as the estate's demands waned and my energy ebbed, I sought solace in solitude, contemplating our silent bonds.

I would go to the school, which I had never visited, now much bigger as I contributed, quietly at first, more to its development. My wife, now its Principal, eventually learned of my donations, and helped me walk with my cane.

Peter found love himself. Married an intelligent woman, and they are now often in the city. I wrote him regular letters now, which seems to have been the only thing I could do.

Sasha takes care of the estate. She's managed to make a business out of pigs and farms. Perhaps her early education from her mother actually paid off.

Compelled by a newfound recognition of my deep, unspoken affection, I penned heartfelt letters to each, laying bare my regrets and realizations.

"Sasha, forgive me. I imposed upon you obligations as my father had imposed on me. I now realize you should have been freer to pursue your own passions."

"Peter, my son, the courage you showed, both on the battlefield and within the walls of our home, taught me the true meaning of bravery. I regret not understanding sooner the weight of the obligations you carried, and I wish I had been there to share that burden with you."

"To my wife, your strength and grace in the face of our arranged union and the challenges that followed have been the silent backbone of our family. I see now the love you've quietly woven into the fabric of our lives, and I regret not recognizing and honoring it sooner."

"That's my story," I said, staring at the suited man beside me.

Death nodded, reached for my hand, and we moved on.