My son, Adrian, had been married to Isolde for just a week when I first noticed her unusual habits. Their wedding had been simple, in a small parish outside Portsmouth, but it was filled with warmth. The guests clapped, sang, and cried when they exchanged vows, and I remember telling myself that my son had chosen a woman who would bring light into his days.
She was everything a mother could hope for—kind, respectful, always smiling, eager to help even with the smallest chores. My neighbors whispered to me at the market, “You are lucky. Not every family welcomes such a daughter-in-law.” And I would beam with pride.
But only a few days into their married life, something unsettled me. Every morning, without fail, Isolde stripped the bed. Sheets, blankets, pillowcases—everything went outside to be washed and dried in the sun. Sometimes she even changed them again by evening.
One afternoon I finally asked, as we sat shelling peas,
“Isolde, my dear, why do you change the bedding so often? The linens are new. Do you really need to?”
She gave me a gentle smile.
“Oh, Mother,” she said softly, “I’ve always been sensitive to dust. Fresh sheets help me rest better.”
Her words sounded innocent enough, but something about them didn’t sit right. No one in Adrian’s family had ever suffered such an allergy. Still, she said it so calmly that I forced myself to let the matter rest—at least for a while.
A few mornings later, I pretended I was leaving for the grocer’s, but instead I waited until she was in the kitchen and quietly crept upstairs. The moment I opened the door, a metallic smell struck me. My stomach tightened. I went to the bed, lifted the sheet with trembling hands, and froze.
The mattress was covered in dark stains, layered and heavy, far too much to be explained away. My breath caught. With shaking fingers I opened a drawer. Inside were rolls of bandages, a half-empty bottle of antiseptic, and a shirt stiff with dried blood.
When I went back down, I grabbed her hand before I could think twice.
“Isolde,” I demanded, pulling her upstairs, “what is the meaning of this? Why so much blood? What are you hiding from me?”
She stared at me, her face pale, her lips quivering. For a moment she said nothing, and I almost thought she might deny it. But then her body trembled, and tears spilled from her eyes. She sank into my arms and whispered,
“Mother… it’s Adrian.”
My heart stopped.
“He has leukemia,” she continued, voice breaking. “The doctors have given him only a few months. He didn’t tell you because he couldn’t bear to see you broken. We married sooner than planned because I couldn’t leave him. I wanted to be here, however little time we had.”
I staggered back, the words slicing through me. “No… no, my boy, he would have told me…”
“He begged me to keep it quiet,” she said through sobs. “Every night I clean the sheets so you won’t see. He doesn’t want you to know how much he suffers.”
That night I lay awake, staring at the ceiling, torn between grief and guilt. My son—my only son—was slipping away, and he had carried this burden in silence. And Isolde, instead of running, had bound herself to him, washing away his pain in secret.
From the next morning on, I no longer questioned her. I rose early and joined her in the work. Together we washed, dried, folded. One day, as we spread a clean sheet across the mattress, I placed my hands on her shoulders.
“Thank you,” I whispered. “Thank you for loving my son, for staying beside him even knowing what waits ahead.”
Three months later, just as dawn broke, Adrian drew his final breath. There was no struggle. He lay in bed, Isolde clasping his hand, whispering, “I love you, I love you,” until the very end. A faint smile lingered on his face when he was gone.
Since that morning, Isolde has never left me. She did not return to her parents, nor seek another marriage. She stayed here, helping me run my modest stall near the harbor, filling the silence of our home with her gentle presence. Two years have passed, and still she remains.
Sometimes people ask me, “Why does she live with you still? She’s young. She could start again.”
I only smile and say, “Because she was not only my son’s wife. She became my daughter. And this will always be her home.”
