A Widowed Father’s Greatest Fear

“Understanding, that worrying was draining and unreasonable arrives in course of time,” said U. sitting himself with the air of a stranger.

And U. was not a stranger in our house. We both, I and my mom, were visited with the same unpleasant sensation – worry glimmered faintly in his pale blue eyes.

U.’s eyes were sharp, noticing everything, skipping nothing. A round face, shiny black hair, and old fashioned half-whiskers. A friend to our house, a brother to my mom, a confidante to me. He was quick at understanding the teenagers who spoke their own language of youth. But his own daughters seemed to get more and more distant with him.

U. had two twin-teenage daughters whom he raised without mother, she died when they were only three years old.

N. and M. were as different in their inner nature as they were alike in their outer looks. N. was fanciful with all sorts of unspoken preferences and was easily offended. M., on the contrary, at almost any disappointment or displeasure would lift her chin and bear it silently.

Both of them at their 16 now were getting even with the life of love-adventure. That was the major reason for sleepless nights and days full of anxiety for their father.

U. was quick to anger, quick to laughter, and kind and loving from the depth of his soul. His daughters used to confide in him with every life adventure. But now they were growing into little ladies and needed a woman’s… mother’s guidance.

U. noticed that with him his daughters would restrain their speech and manners out of some secretive modesty. They hated the superior tone that he sometimes took with them, trying to reason and caution.

His daughters resented U.’s protective manner. He feared that their open-to-love hearts may get bruised on the way to more mature understanding of relationships.

N. and M. were tossed down blindfold on that life of emotion. To predict what it would make of them was impossible. They needed to taste it with their own taste buds.

U. was walking slowly, dragging his feet along as if he had a great weight on his shoulders. My mother was a wise woman and a good friend to her older brother. She reasoned with him, instilling in his mind the understanding that every step his daughters took toward love added to them strength and expansion as individuals.

My mother said that there was no purpose in tossing the days in a sort of monotonous agitation as there was no way to stop the natural process of girls’ awakening sensuousness. She chose to trust and respect rather than worry and question our self-esteem.

U. needed to call back to his memory the days of his early youth. He could make his authority felt and lock his girls at home—that would only invite violence and protest—U. knew it too well.

His daughters were merging into their teens. Soon enough they would be grown young women and to get to this point they needed to acquire experience that only heartfelt affairs could give.

I was on friendly terms with M. and N. That friendship produced a consoling effect on U.’s worrisome mind. His girls spent a lot of time in our house, talking to me, my sister, and our mother. They could ask my mother questions that were not destined to man’s ears. The answers they received were full of dignity and depth of graceful and noble judgment.

U. also had a privilege to relieve his long-pent emotions and talk freely with my mother. She was able to balance the strange anxiety in his soul, solace his spirit, and soothe his ruffled temper with the company and conversation.

The time of agitated, burning heart and brain is left behind. U. is an affectionate grandfather to his many grandchildren.

His beautiful and wise daughter M. came back from a big town with a child in her hands seeking retirement for her broken heart. She met a simple farmer, married him, and became a mother for four brothers to her little older girl.

U.’s other daughter N. became a famous writer—married to her books; constantly in love with her cats, niece, and nephews; and caring about every relation on a distant gift-giving manner. She remembers all the important dates and never fails to send a word and a present but rarely shows up herself, always faithful to her secluded way of life.

22 thoughts on “A Widowed Father’s Greatest Fear”

I love reading the, there’s a solution to every problem. I can allow anxiety get the best of me at times and these tips will come in handy. Thank you.

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Actress / Writer / Producer

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