Four years ago, when he had arranged the engagent between Joanne and Jeffrey, the entire family had opposed it. Christina never raised her voice like the others. She hadn’t fought him, nor did she speak harshly of Joanne.
But she didn’t support him either. She’d done what he asked, yes, but never with the warmth he had hoped for. Her silences were her protest—gentle, quiet, and yet so unmistakably firm.
Christina’s hands stilled. Her fingers loosened from the knitting needles, and she looked at her husband, her eyes laced with regret.
"I’m sorry..." she said softly.
She had acted blindly then. When she saw her grandson, her sweet Jeffrey, walking around with sorrow etched on his face like it had been carved in stone, she couldn’t bear it. She had raised him. She had wiped his tears, taught him to stand tall. How could she watch him being forced into a marriage he didn’t want?
But she hadn’t seen the whole picture—not then.
"I should have trusted you more," she added, her voice thick with guilt. "Trusted her more. And your decision. You saw what I didn’t."
The more she learned about Joanne, the more ashad she beca of her old doubts. Joanne had been so young, so alone, yet she carried herself with quiet grace and a stubborn strength that now felt unmistakably familiar—Winchester in its core.
Christina looked down at the wool in her lap, then at the half-ford sweater in her hands. Her thumb traced along the line of careful stitches, as if seeking forgiveness in their precision.
"I must’ve been blind not to see it back then," she murmured. "Even when I first t her... she was nothing but kind. So gentle. So polite. And still, I..." She let out a slow, painful breath, her voice trembling with guilt as mories stirred—the quiet dignity Joanne had carried, and the coldness she had been t with.
Philip reached over and placed his hand gently over hers. There was no bitterness in his touch, no judgnt in his eyes. Only warmth. And love.
"You see her now," he said softly. "That’s what matters."
He knew Joanne would forgive. That was who his beloved Poppet was. She had a heart wide enough to hold even the ones who hurt her. But he... he couldn’t deny the wound that lingered. Not because of Joanne—but because of what it revealed about his place in the family.
"I thought my word would be enough," Philip said, his voice low and laced with a quiet ache. "I thought my judgnt still ant sothing to this family. I was wrong."
Christina dropped her knitting, moving closer until she could tuck herself against his side. She rested her head on his shoulder and placed her hand gently over his chest, where his heart beat steady and strong beneath her palm.
"You are important," she whispered. "To . To all of us. You’re everything, Philip."
Her voice cracked. Because it was true—he was the foundation of their family, the reason they were who they were. He had given them everything. And the one ti he had asked sothing for himself... she hadn’t stood beside him the way she should have.
Her heart clenched at the thought. How could she have failed him like that?
"We love you," she added fiercely. "I love you. Please don’t doubt that. Not ever."
Philip wrapped his arm around her, holding her close.
"Oh, my darling..." he whispered, pressing a kiss to her temple. "I know you do. I love you, too. I love all of you. Don’t mind the ramblings of an old fool. I just... miss what could’ve been."
Christina lifted her head with a teary smile. "Old?" she echoed, arching a brow. "Where’s that old fool you’re talking about? All I see is the sa handso man who swept off my feet when he recited Keats by the fireplace..."
Philip chuckled softly, his lips curving with affection. He rembered. Of course he did. His own words had never felt enough for her—so he borrowed from Keats, from Byron, from every great poet he could find.
Because back then, and even now, only the words of the greatest n could co close to describing how much he loved her.
"I should’ve told you... what I owe Sean Smith," Philip said, his voice low, almost reverent. The confession had sat buried inside him for decades—unspoken not out of secrecy, but habit, perhaps even guilt. And now, he finally let it surface.
Christina turned to him, eyes wide and curious, eager for an answer to the question that had quietly haunted her over the years. Her husband had many friends, many acquaintances, but none held the place Sean Smith held in his heart. That weathered farr from the hills—simple, unpolished, often drunk—yet treasured like a brother. More than once, she had felt a pang of jealousy, unsure why.
It had always seed... odd. And yet, oddly beautiful. An aristocrat with a soul-deep bond to a hillbilly farr. She never understood. Not until now.
"Do you rember... thirty years ago," Philip began, his voice caught sowhere between mory and lancholy, "when everything was falling apart—when I was about to lose it all, and those bastards sent the mob after ?"
Christina’s hand went instinctively to his, her fingers lacing through his. "You disappeared," she whispered. "You sent us overseas and vanished. I was scared every day... waiting for a phone call. For any word..."
Philip gave her hand a gentle squeeze, then let out a sigh. "I thought I’d failed. That I’d dragged the Winchester na into the dirt in my ambition to rebuild it. The vultures were circling. I couldn’t go ho. I couldn’t trust anyone. One night, my car broke down on so godforsaken road—middle of nowhere, nothing but trees and dirt. And I knew... it was over. They were close behind . I saw their car."
His voice faltered, and Christina’s eyes filled with tears. He had never spoken about what had happened during those weeks. She hadn’t known how close he ca to death.
"I said my prayers," he continued. "Not even for myself. I just wanted to see your face again. Once more."
Her fingers trembled around his. "Oh, Philip..."
"That’s when he ca," Philip said, and a small smile crept onto his face. "That drunk man in a beat-up truck. Sean Smith. Didn’t ask questions. Just saw a stranger broken down on the side of the road and threw himself into fixing the car like it was his job. When I told him to go, to leave before they got there... he looked at like I was the madman."
Reviews
All reviews (0)