Lena threw herself into them, mending torn clothes, sweeping floors, helping Maggie in the garden, playing quiet games with the little ones while Ruthie finally, finally had a moment to herself. As the sun began its descent toward the mountains, Lena found herself in the garden pulling weeds alongside Maggie. The girl worked with methodical precision, her small hands efficient and sure. "Do you miss your old home?" Maggie asked suddenly. Lena considered the question.
"Parts of it. I miss the familiarity, knowing where everything was, having a routine. But not the people?" "No," Lena admitted. "Not most of them." Maggie was quiet for a moment, uprooting a stubborn dandelion. "People used to look at us different after Ma died, like we were broken, like they felt sorry for us, but didn't really want to get too close." "That must have been hard." "It was.
Still is, sometimes." Maggie sat back on her heels, squinting against the lowering sun. "But Pa says feeling sorry for someone and actually helping them are two different things. Most people feel sorry. Not many people help." "Your father is a wise man." "He tries." Maggie returned to weeding. "He makes mistakes, sometimes.
Gets tired. Gets sad. But he never gives up on us. Never makes us feel like we're too much trouble. Unlike your family, Lena heard in the unspoken words.
Unlike the people who made you feel like a burden. "You're lucky to have him," Lena said. "I know." Maggie pulled another weed. "Are you going to stay?" It was becoming a refrain, everyone asking, no one quite believing she might. "Would you like me to?" Maggie shrugged with the studied nonchalance of an 11-year-old trying not to show she cared.
"It's nice having you here. You make Ruthie smile more. And Esther hasn't talked about missing Ma at bedtime since you came." Lena's chest tightened. "That's only been two nights." "Still." Maggie glanced at her sideways. "You're different from the women who come to church and pat our heads and tell Pa they're praying for us.
You actually do things. You notice things." "Like what?" "Like how Jacob is left-handed, but keeps trying to write with his right hand because that's how everyone else does it. Or how Rose only acts brave when she's scared. Or how Ruthie pretends she's fine when she's about to break." Maggie's voice dropped. "You see us, really see us.
That doesn't happen much." Lena had to look away, blinking against sudden tears. She hadn't realized how much she'd been seen, how closely she'd been paying attention. It had been instinctive, natural, the same way she used to watch her nieces and nephews, learning their quirks and fears and secret joys. Maybe this was what she'd been made for. Not bearing children, but nurturing them.
Not creating life, but enriching the lives already here. "Thank you for telling me that," Lena managed. They finished the weeding in comfortable silence as the sky turned gold and pink. When they returned to the house, arms full of vegetables, they found Jonas at the stove again, this time making some kind of soup. The little ones were playing quietly, worn out from the day, while Ruthie set the table.
"Thought I'd handle supper tonight," Jonas said when he saw Lena's surprised expression. "You've been working hard all day. You should rest before the evening chaos hits. I don't mind helping." "I know you don't, but I'm telling you to sit." He pointed at a chair with his wooden spoon. "Sit." Lena sat.
From her vantage point, she watched Jonas cook. He moved with the same competence he brought to everything else, checking the soup, cutting bread, tasting and adjusting seasonings. This was a man who'd learned by necessity, not choice, who'd had to become both mother and father to his children when tragedy struck. And he'd done it. Maybe not perfectly, maybe not without struggle, but he'd done it.