The summer sun was merciless that year, baking the earth until the soil cracked and the grass turned yellow. The woman, six months pregnant, felt every ray as a burden pressing down on her back. Her husband had left for the seaside only a week earlier, and each morning she woke to photos of him smiling against the backdrop of blue water and white sand.
She had once imagined their first child bringing them closer together, but instead, her growing belly had become the wedge driving them apart.
The Departure
When she first told him about the doctor’s orders—that flying was too risky, that she needed rest—she had assumed he would cancel his long-anticipated vacation. She had pictured evenings together, him making tea for her, perhaps rubbing her swollen feet.
But he had looked at her coolly and said, “The tickets are already bought. Why waste the money? I’ll go. You stay at my mother’s. She’ll keep you busy.”
And that was the end of the discussion.
The next day, she was dropped off at her mother-in-law’s village house, where the modern comforts she had grown used to were only memories. The toilet was behind the barn, the water was drawn cold from a well, and the beds inside sagged like worn hammocks. Her mother-in-law greeted her not with sympathy, but with chores.
“Pregnant or not, work is the best cure for idleness,” the older woman said.
The Garden Routine
Every morning, the young wife rose with the rooster’s crow. Her back ached as she bent to pull weeds and dig through the soil. The potato plants stretched across rows like endless soldiers, and her task seemed to grow larger each day.
At noon, her mother-in-law would ladle out a bowl of thin soup, setting it on the table. “Eat when the garden’s finished,” she’d remark. The woman’s stomach growled, but she obeyed, too timid to argue.
She thought often of her husband. Each photo he sent seemed to mock her: him with sunglasses, a drink in his hand, his bare feet in the sand. Relaxing, just like you said, his captions read.
At night, she dreamed of waves—though she had never seen the sea in person. She dreamed of water lapping against her ankles, carrying her away from fields, from her mother-in-law, from this loneliness.
The Day of the Potatoes
That morning began like any other. The woman wrapped a scarf around her hair and trudged into the garden with a spade. Her belly felt heavy, and her ankles were swollen, but she pushed herself to dig. Each shovel of earth brought up clusters of potatoes, their pale skins caked with dirt.
But as the hours passed, something unusual happened. The ground beneath her seemed different, the soil looser, almost hollow in places. When she drove the spade down again, the blade struck not stone, not root—but something hard and metallic.
She frowned, knelt, and dug with her hands.
Within minutes, she uncovered a rusted tin box. Her breath caught. She glanced toward the house—her mother-in-law was inside, humming as she chopped vegetables. Heart racing, the woman pulled the box free and brushed the dirt away.
The neighbors working in their own gardens noticed her sudden stillness. One called out, “Everything all right?”
She nodded quickly, clutching the box to her chest.
The Secret in the Soil
Curiosity overpowered her exhaustion. She pried open the lid. Inside were bundles of old banknotes, wrapped in faded cloth. Among them were letters—dozens of them—addressed not to her husband, but to his mother.
Her hands trembled as she read. The letters were from a man long gone, a name she didn’t recognize. They spoke of love, of secret meetings, of promises to build a new life away from the village. They were confessions of a passion that had been buried, both literally and figuratively.
The woman stared at the money and the words. Why had her mother-in-law hidden this? What life had she sacrificed to remain in this house, to raise a son who now treated his pregnant wife with such coldness?
The Neighbors’ Shock
She didn’t notice at first that several neighbors had drifted closer, curiosity pulling them toward her. When they saw the open box, the bundles of money, the scandalous letters fluttering in her lap, gasps rose in the air.
“Is that…?” one whispered.
“Hidden treasure!” another exclaimed.
Her mother-in-law burst through the door, eyes wide, face pale. “What have you done?” she cried, rushing forward. But it was too late—the neighbors had seen everything. Secrets that had slept underground for decades were now alive, rustling in the summer breeze.
The Confrontation
That evening, the young wife sat in the kitchen as her mother-in-law paced, wringing her hands. “You don’t understand,” the older woman muttered. “Those letters… that money… they were from before. Before my marriage. Before my life became what it is.”
The girl said nothing. She understood enough. Her mother-in-law, so stern and unyielding, had once loved someone else. She had buried her past just as she had buried that tin box. And now, with one careless swing of a spade, it had all been unearthed.
The neighbors buzzed with gossip for days. Some whispered about hidden lovers. Others marveled at the hoarded money. But all agreed: they would never look at the mother-in-law the same way again.
The Husband’s Return
When her husband returned from the seaside, tanned and smug, he was greeted not with admiration but with silence. The village had already shared its story. He found his wife sitting on the porch, her hands resting on her swollen belly, her eyes steady and distant.
“You won’t believe what happened while you were gone,” she said softly. And then she told him everything—the potatoes, the box, the neighbors’ whispers, the truth about his mother.
For once, he had nothing to say.
A Quiet Resolve
That night, the woman lay awake, listening to the crickets outside. She thought of the money, of the letters, of her husband’s stunned silence. She thought of the child inside her, a new life that deserved more than secrets, more than coldness, more than being left behind while others chased their own pleasures.
She didn’t know yet what choice she would make. But she knew this: the soil had revealed more than potatoes. It had revealed truth. And once uncovered, truth could never again be buried.