Desperate times call for unexpected loves (Melisha Tweedy x FemOC)

Chapter 3: That horrible letter

The days pass slowly and little by little I feel that I'm adapting to this way of life. I got up, got dressed, worked, worked and worked. I didn't think I had the right to complain either, at least my stomach was full and my parents would surely sleep peacefully.

My relationship with the farmers continued at the same point, or almost. Mr Tweedy was kind, a little goofy, but at least he always had a smile on his face. The problem was his wife.

As the days passed, Mrs Tweedy's sour and irascible character did not change, but it seems that my work satisfied her enough not to insult or despise me too much. At least not as much as that first day. I would be a fool if I thought it was because I raised my voice at her, or because I apologized for something I hadn't done.

I settled for the calm waters, with a grunt, a sigh, or a vague nod. Beyond that, there was only silence and looks that I couldn't decipher. She'd probably be going up in arms for not being right, because that city brat was competent enough not to be a burden.

I have to say to her credit that it cost me a lot at first. I was lacking sleep, but I could relax with a hot bath or a quiet night of reading under the warm fire of the fireplace. Hugh replied to my first letter and that gave me hope. He hadn't forgotten me.

As time went by, I learned to take care of those little animals. I liked to talk to them, to think that they listened to me in some way, even the only rooster in the pen, who, unlike the other hens, had a name, Fowler.

Mr Tweedy told me he won it at an army auction. Apparently it had been one of the unit's pets. Surely that old rooster had a lot of things to tell if he could do it.

And there I was, a quiet night, with no more work to do than sink into my books, fighting hard with the sleep I had.

Mr Tweedy had long since gone to sleep, and I was in the living room, lying on an old couch. At the other end of the room, a barely noticeable Melisha Tweedy concentrated on her papers.

Those were moments of calm, there were no words, not even the intention to know that I was there too. I began to treasure those moments of peace, without words of contempt and without offensive nicknames. It was like being in the eye of the hurricane. A time of peace, but when it was over, I would be shaken around like a rag doll again. I had already planned a strategy: The best conversation is no conversation.

I sat up a little so that my eyes wouldn't close and I glanced briefly at the woman sitting at the desk. For her I probably don't even exist at that moment and it was better that way.

Without saying a word, she stood up, looking through the papers on the table. She moved a little closer, a little more closer. I tried to continue reading but every time Mrs Tweedy moved my whole body went on alert.

When she was a short distance away, with a gesture of indifference, she dropped a letter in the middle of my book. Feigning a start, I looked at her briefly and then took the envelope.

"It's for you, brat," she whispered, returning to her desk.

After a somber look to her, I looked at the sender. Oh, it was Hugh's. It was always a joy when the letter I received was from my boyfriend, and not from my parents. I love his clumsy writing full of grammatical errors.

I opened it with interest, putting the book aside. I glanced again at the woman, who sat down with a tired sigh, and I prepared to read the letter.

Many times I had to make great efforts to understand his handwriting, but this time I didn't need it, it almost seemed like he hadn't written it. Much worse was what it said.