Free Letter from a Desperate Father by Maron Anrow Page A

who want a meek and dainty wife so
they feel large and powerful by contrast, but my future wife’s
assertive demeanor attracted me. It was inevitable I would fall in
love.
    I led her back to my home. She
appraised it quietly, and nodded as if to say, “This will do.” She
stayed in the second bedroom those first few weeks, and after that
I asked her to marry me. I’m not one to attract the eye of women,
so I was stunned when she said yes.
    Not long after our wedding, I made a
trip to town. I overheard a rumor about the mysterious illness and
subsequent death of the lord of an estate a few miles from town, in
the opposite direction of my farm. I didn’t think much of it then.
But many times since, I’ve wondered if that was the estate from
which my wife escaped.
    I often asked her to tell me about her
childhood and homeland. She would laugh, as if there was no point
in answering. Some people might take offense at her response, but
there was no malice or disdain in it.
    “My home is more distant than you can
imagine,” she said.
    “Is it near the Americas?
Africa?”
    “It is an island east of Russia, north
of Japan.” She paused, then raised her brows at me. “Do you know
where those countries are?”
    “Yes, but I’ve never seen them
mapped.”
    “Well, then there is no point telling
you more.”
    “Can’t you tell me its
name?”
    “You could not pronounce
it.”
    “But I could hear it.”
    “Silly man.” She leaned forward to kiss
my cheek. “Do not bother yourself with such things.”
    I was unsatisfied. “What about how you
came to be here?” I asked. “Can you tell me that?”
    Her expression darkened at my question.
“I do not like to recall it.”
    I suspected forced servitude, even
slavery, but I respected her and didn’t press the issue. I did
continue to inquire about her homeland itself, but the conversation
ended the same way each time I broached the topic. However, when we
had our son, I sometimes overheard her telling him stories from her
homeland. These stories always involved magic, such as spirits,
demons, curses, and gifts of foresight. Why could she share this
part of herself with our son, but not me?
    Once, I told her tales of magic from my
childhood, hoping it would encourage her to respond with stories of
her own.
    “And then the girl pricked herself on
the needle, and slept for hundreds of years,” I concluded, proud of
my storytelling.
    “Hmph,” she scoffed. “What a childish
notion of magic.”
    “How do you see magic?” Could this be
it? Would she finally include me in her world?
    “If magic existed, it would have to be part of the natural world.
All things come from nature. Life and death in their basic forms
are influenced by others’ lives and deaths. But fairies and an
eternity of sleep? Bah! It is easier to imagine the absurd than to
grasp a possible yet unseen reality.”
    Her words made no sense to me. “What do
you mean?”
    “Never mind yourself with it. You
English have limited imaginations. This is not something you could
understand.”
    At this point, you probably think I’m a
weak man, so easily belittled by my wife. But that is never how I
felt. I agreed with her. Her mind was truly more expansive than
mine. What may seem like insults were simply factual statements
from her perspective. To this day, I still believe that, despite
what followed.
    Now I must tell you about our son. He
arrived quickly. I didn’t keep a close eye on the calendar, but I
don’t doubt it was nine months to the day from our wedding. His
birth was noteworthy. My wife refused the assistance of a midwife,
but I ultimately got my way. This was one of the rare times my will
bested hers.
    She was disdainful of the midwife, and
she proved me wrong: The midwife hadn’t been necessary. My son’s
birth was over in minutes, with seemingly little pain and certainly
no complication.
    The midwife was stunned. “Such a birth
I’ve never seen,” she said. My wife hurried her out of