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Monday mornings were never easy. Though Hannah King heard her four-year-old son calling, she longed to bury her head under the covers and let her mother take care of him. She’d had a dream about David. It had been so real—David kissing her on their wedding day, David standing beside her as she cradled their newborn son, David moving about the room quietly as he prepared for work.
But he wasn’t in the room with her, and he never would be again. A late-summer breeze stirred the window shade. In the distance she could hear the clip-clop of horses on the two-lane, a rooster’s crow, the low of a cow. Summer would be over soon. Here in northern Indiana, where she’d grown up, September was met with a full schedule of fall festivals and pumpkin trails and harvest celebrations. She dreaded it all—had no desire to walk through the bright leaves, or decorate with pumpkins or bake apple pies. Fall had been David’s favorite time of year. Matthew was born in September. The accident? It had occurred the last week of August. That terrible anniversary was one week away.
This year, the thought of autumn overwhelmed her. Her entire life left her feeling tired and unable to cope. She was happy to be home with her parents, but she hadn’t realized the extent of their financial troubles until she’d already moved in. Their church in Wisconsin had used money from the benevolence fund to pay for Matthew’s surgeries, but her parents had paid for all of his rehab from their savings. Now they were operating month-to-month, and the stress was beginning to show. She needed to find a job, to help them with the bills, but how could she work when her primary responsibility was to care for Matthew?
She should at least make an attempt to find employment, but she wanted and needed to be home with her son. If she were honest with herself, she dreaded the thought of interacting with other people on a daily basis. She hadn’t enough energy for that.
Hannah pushed off the bedcovers, slipped her feet into a pair of worn house shoes and hurried to the room next door as her mother stepped into the hall.
“I can take care of him if you like.”
“Nein. I’m awake.”
She should have said more, should have thanked her mother, but the memory of David was too heavy on her heart, her emotions too raw. So instead she quickly glanced away and opened the door to Matthew’s room.
Though her son was four years old, soon to be five, he still slept in a bed with rails along the side. This was mainly to keep him from falling out.
The thinnest sliver of morning light shone through the gap between the window and the shade, fell across the room and landed on little Matthew. He was lying on his back, his legs splayed out in front of him. Matthew smiled and raised his arms to her, but instead of picking him up, Hannah lowered the wooden rail that her dat had fastened to the bed and sat beside him. Matthew struggled to a sitting position and pulled himself into her lap. For a four-year-old, his arms were incredibly strong, probably to make up for the fact that his legs were useless.
“Gudemariye, Mamm.” The Pennsylvania Dutch rolled off his tongue, thick with sleep.
“Good morning to you, Matthew.”
He reached up and touched her face, patted her cheek, then snuggled in closer.
She gave him a few minutes. Long ago, she’d learned that Matthew needed time to wake up, to adjust to the world. When he was ready, he said, “Potty?”
“Sure thing, Matt.”
But before she could pick him up, her father was standing in the doorway. No doubt he’d been awake for hours, and he carried into the room the familiar smells of the barn—hay, horses and even a little manure. It was an earthy smell that Hannah never tired of.
“I thought I heard young Matthew awake.”
“Daddi!” Matthew squirmed out of her lap and launched himself at her father, who caught him with a smile and carried him into the bathroom across the hall. She could hear them there, laughing and talking about the upcoming day.
Hannah slipped back into her room, changed into a plain gray dress, black apron and white kapp. Once dressed, she hurried to the kitchen. If she’d thought she could help her mother make breakfast, she was sadly mistaken.
Steam rose from the platter of fresh biscuits on the table. Another dish held crisp bacon, and her mother was scooping scrambled eggs into a large