Stretching Poor (aka. The Work House)

The last night you spend with your children is the most precious, and the most horrifying few hours of your life.

Being poor is stretching. Stretching every penny, stretching your luck, stretching the goodwill of others. All to stretch out the survival of your children, if not yourself.

The workhouse is huge, and grey. Cold, hard and shadowy even in July. I heard in some, there's fair treatment, enough food. Families stay together. Not this one.

It's amazing what a person will tolerate, when here is the alternative. Sick what lows the decent will sink to, what unsellable things they'll sell, what principles they'll turn from.

How cold could I let my babies be before I'll let them be taken from me forever? How stark their ribs before I let strangers shave their heads? How hollow their faces before I surrender them to unknown treatment? For rations, however meagre?

The puppy-fat melted from their bones, and scant childhood joy from their eyes, and still I stretched. Could I stretch our tenancy in that tiny room until the weather warmed?

I couldn't, and now here we are. I haven't told them. All they know is that we're safe, warm, we all had some small amount to eat for a change. I know it's just tonight. That morning will bring a new brutal and lonely reality where we'll eventually not even know one another anymore.

I want to hug them so tight their brittle bones could break. Wail the pain of my love for them to the high, harsh ceiling. Drink in their eyes, steal their smiles to fold in my heart forever.

I want them to memorise these hours as the last and only gift I had left give. But I'm loathe to disturb their peaceful slumber. The first, and perhaps last, in a long time. The littlest is too young to remember anyway, will likely not remember my face.

So, I forfeit sleep. I bathe in every second, choke back sobs, and let the tears sit on my cheeks. I hold them as tight as I dare, and stroke the precious dirty tangles that will be clipped away when the sun rises and breaks my heart.

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Word count (excluding note): 366

Submitted on 28th January at 10.26AM

*Quick Author's Note*

Thank you for reading! Please leave a comment so I can reciprocate the read. Your thoughtful engagement is very much valued. If you enjoyed it, the best compliment you can give is to share it, or read another.

The story behind the story, if you're interested: I read "Call the Midwife" years ago, and one story involved a woman who went to the workhouse with her children. They arrived late at night, and were allowed them to spend the first night together before being admitted properly in the morning. There was no happy ending to this true story, unless you count the beginning of social welfare. The whole thing haunted me for years, and sometimes it still comes back to me. This story is my attempt to poultice it out.

My "story every day" project: I'm writing a story every day this year. This one makes a 28 day streak. You can find all of them in my Index post, which is pinned to the top of my profile. I'll also link to it at the bottom.

If you're joining me on this "story every day" madne adventure, please leave a link to yours in the comments. Whether you're on a creative bent, like me, and writing mostly microfiction/stories, or whether you have your own, self-imposed criteria, I'd love to see what you come up with for today. I'll try to come back and edit this to link to your piece at the bottom.

If you'd like to buy the cow, (or get more sort-of free milk on Kindle Unlimited):