There was a moment when I realized I had stopped counting the hours since I arrived at Cedar Run.<\/p>\n
That surprised me.<\/p>\n
After Ada died, time had become something I watched constantly.<\/p>\n
Two hours and nineteen minutes.<\/p>\n
Three days since her burial.<\/p>\n
Five months since Thomas's death.<\/p>\n
I had measured my losses because the numbers were the only parts I could hold steady.<\/p>\n
Everything else seemed uncertain.<\/p>\n
Now my days were being divided by the twins' needs.<\/p>\n
The boy cried.<\/p>\n
His sister stirred.<\/p>\n
One needed feeding.<\/p>\n
Then the other.<\/p>\n
There was rest when we could manage it.<\/p>\n
And worry even when the room was quiet.<\/p>\n
I did not know exactly when the change began.<\/p>\n
I only noticed that I had started thinking about what the babies needed next instead of what hour it was.<\/p>\n
That frightened me.<\/p>\n
I worried that caring for them was making me forget Ada.<\/p>\n
The thought came while I was sitting with the boy in the green blanket.<\/p>\n
He was feeding steadily.<\/p>\n
His small hand rested against me.<\/p>\n
I looked at his fingers.<\/p>\n
Then I realized I had gone several minutes without thinking about my daughter.<\/p>\n
I felt ashamed.<\/p>\n
It was a foolish kind of guilt.<\/p>\n
I knew that.<\/p>\n
But it came anyway.<\/p>\n
Ada had been dead only a few days when I reached Cedar Run.<\/p>\n
I had not even begun to understand how to live without her.<\/p>\n
And already I could spend part of a morning occupied with another baby.<\/p>\n
I wondered what that said about me.<\/p>\n
I wondered whether a good mother should feel constant grief.<\/p>\n
Whether any moment of relief was a betrayal.<\/p>\n
Whether I was allowed to find comfort in something when my daughter had been given so little time.<\/p>\n
The boy continued feeding.<\/p>\n
He knew nothing of my thoughts.<\/p>\n
He was hungry.<\/p>\n
I had milk.<\/p>\n
To him, the situation was simple.<\/p>\n
I wished I could see it that way.<\/p>\n
After he rested, I passed him to Caleb.<\/p>\n
The boy made a small sound and settled against his father's shoulder.<\/p>\n
Caleb looked at me.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou seem troubled.\u201d<\/p>\n
I almost denied it.<\/p>\n
Then I remembered how often I had done that at Martha's house.<\/p>\n
I had hidden pain until it made ordinary conversation difficult.<\/p>\n
I did not want to repeat that habit.<\/p>\n
\u201cI was thinking about Ada.\u201d<\/p>\n
Caleb nodded.<\/p>\n
He had learned not to be surprised when I spoke her name.<\/p>\n
I appreciated that.<\/p>\n
I looked toward the brown blanket.<\/p>\n
His daughter was resting quietly.<\/p>\n
\u201cSometimes I worry I'm forgetting her.\u201d<\/p>\n
Caleb looked at me.<\/p>\n
I could see he was trying to understand.<\/p>\n
\u201cShe died so recently,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n
\u201cI know.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cAnd I can sit here feeding your son and go a little while without thinking about her.\u201d<\/p>\n
My voice became tight.<\/p>\n
\u201cI don't know why that makes me feel guilty.\u201d<\/p>\n
Caleb was quiet.<\/p>\n
I wondered whether I had said something foolish.<\/p>\n
Perhaps I had.<\/p>\n
But it was honest.<\/p>\n
I had spent so many hours thinking of Ada that the absence of those thoughts felt like another loss.<\/p>\n
I was afraid that if I stopped remembering constantly, she would disappear.<\/p>\n
The doctor had said her lungs never opened properly.<\/p>\n
The midwife had carried her away.<\/p>\n
The earth had covered her.<\/p>\n
Now memory was all I had.<\/p>\n
What if that too began slipping from me?<\/p>\n
I looked at my hands.<\/p>\n
\u201cI don't want to forget what she looked like.\u201d<\/p>\n
Caleb lowered his eyes.<\/p>\n
For a while, he watched his son.<\/p>\n
Then he said, \u201cI worry about forgetting things too.\u201d<\/p>\n
I looked up.<\/p>\n
\u201cAbout Lydia?\u201d<\/p>\n
He nodded.<\/p>\n
I waited.<\/p>\n
He seemed reluctant to speak.<\/p>\n
I understood.<\/p>\n
There were memories so precious that saying them aloud felt almost dangerous.<\/p>\n
At last, he said, \u201cSometimes I remember something ordinary about her. Then I wonder what else I've already forgotten.\u201d<\/p>\n
I felt my throat tighten.<\/p>\n
That was exactly the fear.<\/p>\n
Not that we would forget their names.<\/p>\n
Or the terrible facts of their deaths.<\/p>\n
Those were impossible to escape.<\/p>\n
We feared losing the smaller things.<\/p>\n
The sound of a voice.<\/p>\n
A familiar movement.<\/p>\n
The way someone looked when they were not expecting to be watched.<\/p>\n
I thought of Thomas.<\/p>\n
I could still picture him with his Bible.<\/p>\n
I could remember his hands.<\/p>\n
But already there were moments when I struggled to hear his voice clearly in my mind.<\/p>\n
I hated admitting that.<\/p>\n
Five months was not long enough to forget anything about a husband.<\/p>\n
Yet memory did not obey me.<\/p>\n
I looked toward Caleb.<\/p>\n
\u201cI keep remembering her ears.\u201d<\/p>\n
He waited.<\/p>\n
\u201cAda's.\u201d<\/p>\n
He nodded.<\/p>\n
\u201cThey were so small.\u201d<\/p>\n
I looked down.<\/p>\n
\u201cI touched one with my fingertip. I remember thinking I ought to be gentle.\u201d<\/p>\n
My eyes filled.<\/p>\n
\u201cShe was so little.\u201d<\/p>\n
Caleb did not interrupt.<\/p>\n
I continued because once I began, I wanted to say it all.<\/p>\n
\u201cI counted her fingers.\u201d<\/p>\n
He looked at me.<\/p>\n
\u201cOver and over.\u201d<\/p>\n
I gave a small, embarrassed shake of my head.<\/p>\n
\u201cI knew there were ten. I just kept checking.\u201d<\/p>\n
Caleb's expression softened.<\/p>\n
I wondered whether he thought grief had made me strange.<\/p>\n
Then I remembered how often he checked his children's blankets.<\/p>\n
How he watched their breathing.<\/p>\n
How he listened whenever his daughter went quiet.<\/p>\n
We had both been doing the same thing.<\/p>\n
Looking for proof that the people we loved were still there.<\/p>\n
I wiped my eyes.<\/p>\n
\u201cI wish I'd had more time.\u201d<\/p>\n
Caleb lowered his gaze.<\/p>\n
\u201cI know.\u201d<\/p>\n
There was nothing else to say.<\/p>\n
He understood what it meant to have expected years and received far less.<\/p>\n
I looked at his twins.<\/p>\n
They were six weeks old.<\/p>\n
Their mother had died bringing them into the world.<\/p>\n
They would never remember her living face.<\/p>\n
That thought hurt.<\/p>\n
I wondered how Caleb would tell them about Lydia when they were old enough to ask.<\/p>\n
I wondered whether he would find the words.<\/p>\n
Then I thought of the stories I had intended to tell Ada about Thomas.<\/p>\n
I had imagined explaining how he died.<\/p>\n
I had imagined telling her about the life we shared.<\/p>\n
Now there would be no child to hear those stories.<\/p>\n
The loss felt new again.<\/p>\n
I had thought I was beginning to understand it.<\/p>\n
Then another ordinary thought exposed a part I had not yet faced.<\/p>\n
I would never tell Ada about her father.<\/p>\n
She would never ask what he was like.<\/p>\n
She would never hold his Bible.<\/p>\n
I looked toward the worn book among my belongings.<\/p>\n
For a moment, I wanted to leave the room.<\/p>\n
I wanted to sit alone and cry until there was nothing left.<\/p>\n
But the little girl in brown began to stir.<\/p>\n
Caleb noticed.<\/p>\n
He looked at me.<\/p>\n
I could see that he was uncertain whether to ask for help.<\/p>\n
He knew I was upset.<\/p>\n
He did not want to make me feel that his children's needs mattered more than my grief.<\/p>\n
The hesitation touched me.<\/p>\n
At Martha's house, I had often felt expected to put my pain aside for the day's work.<\/p>\n
Caleb seemed unwilling to demand that of me.<\/p>\n
I looked at his daughter.<\/p>\n
She opened her mouth.<\/p>\n
A faint cry followed.<\/p>\n
I held out my arms.<\/p>\n
\u201cBring her here.\u201d<\/p>\n
Caleb hesitated.<\/p>\n
\u201cAre you sure?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYes.\u201d<\/p>\n
He watched my face.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou can take a moment.\u201d<\/p>\n
I shook my head.<\/p>\n
\u201cShe's hungry.\u201d<\/p>\n
He did not argue.<\/p>\n
He passed me the little girl.<\/p>\n
I settled her against my chest.<\/p>\n
The brown blanket was familiar beneath my fingers.<\/p>\n
I knew how carefully she needed to be held.<\/p>\n
I knew she tired easily.<\/p>\n
I knew she sometimes required patience before she began feeding.<\/p>\n
I had learned those things by paying attention to her.<\/p>\n
Not because she reminded me of Ada.<\/p>\n
Because she was herself.<\/p>\n
That realization came quietly.<\/p>\n
I looked down at her face.<\/p>\n
She was not my daughter.<\/p>\n
I did not need her to be.<\/p>\n
Her name was not Ada.<\/p>\n
Her mother had been Lydia Foster.<\/p>\n
Her father was sitting beside me.<\/p>\n
She had a brother who cried loudly whenever he wanted milk.<\/p>\n
She had her own place in the world.<\/p>\n
And she needed help.<\/p>\n
I brought her close.<\/p>\n
She searched slowly.<\/p>\n
Then began to nurse.<\/p>\n
I watched her.<\/p>\n
There was no great change in the room.<\/p>\n
No sudden certainty that everything would be well.<\/p>\n
The little girl still had to work for each feeding.<\/p>\n
I still worried about her weakness.<\/p>\n
Caleb still watched closely.<\/p>\n
But I felt something shift inside me.<\/p>\n
I had been afraid that caring for the twins meant I was trying to replace Ada.<\/p>\n
Now I understood that replacing her was impossible.<\/p>\n
Ada had been my daughter.<\/p>\n
There could never be another Ada June Mercer.<\/p>\n
No amount of nursing another baby would change that.<\/p>\n
Her short life belonged to her.<\/p>\n
Her death belonged to the painful history I would always carry.<\/p>\n
The twins were not an answer to that loss.<\/p>\n
They were two living children with needs of their own.<\/p>\n
I could help them without asking them to heal me.<\/p>\n
The thought made me feel both relieved and sad.<\/p>\n
Relieved because I could stop accusing myself of betrayal.<\/p>\n
Sad because it meant accepting that Ada would remain gone.<\/p>\n
There was no exchange.<\/p>\n
No bargain.<\/p>\n
No way to turn another child's survival into a reason for my daughter's death.<\/p>\n
I had struggled with that since the first night.<\/p>\n
I had wondered whether the milk my body continued producing was somehow meant for Caleb's children.<\/p>\n
I no longer wanted to think that way.<\/p>\n
Ada had died because her lungs could not work as they needed to.<\/p>\n
The doctor had told me so.<\/p>\n
Caleb's babies needed nourishment because their mother had died and feeding had become difficult.<\/p>\n
Those were separate tragedies.<\/p>\n
One did not justify the other.<\/p>\n
I could not make either loss meaningful by forcing it into a tidy explanation.<\/p>\n
But I could respond to the need in front of me.<\/p>\n
The little girl swallowed.<\/p>\n
I felt relief.<\/p>\n
She paused.<\/p>\n
I waited.<\/p>\n
Then she made another effort.<\/p>\n
I looked toward Caleb.<\/p>\n
He was watching her with the same concern I felt.<\/p>\n
\u201cShe keeps trying,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n
He nodded.<\/p>\n
\u201cYes.\u201d<\/p>\n
I did not promise him that she would recover.<\/p>\n
I did not tell him that everything would be different tomorrow.<\/p>\n
I knew too much about uncertainty.<\/p>\n
Instead, I continued holding her.<\/p>\n
That was what I could do.<\/p>\n
After she rested, I kept her against me for a while.<\/p>\n
Her little body was warm.<\/p>\n
I could feel her breathing.<\/p>\n
Caleb sat nearby with his son.<\/p>\n
For a moment, both babies were quiet.<\/p>\n
I looked toward the window.<\/p>\n
The cold fields remained outside.<\/p>\n
Beyond them lay the creek.<\/p>\n
And beyond the creek, Martha's farmhouse.<\/p>\n
I still did not know what my sister thought of my departure.<\/p>\n
I did not know whether Amos would ever accept my decision.<\/p>\n
Those questions mattered.<\/p>\n
But they no longer controlled every thought.<\/p>\n
I had chosen to help the twins.<\/p>\n
Caleb had accepted my offer.<\/p>\n
The arrangement was still new.<\/p>\n
It remained uncertain.<\/p>\n
We had not solved every difficulty that might come.<\/p>\n
But I had begun to understand why I wanted to remain.<\/p>\n
It was not because I had nowhere else to go.<\/p>\n
It was not because I wanted to become Lydia Foster.<\/p>\n
And it was not because I believed another woman's children could give me back the family I had lost.<\/p>\n
I wanted to remain because I could offer something useful.<\/p>\n
The babies needed milk.<\/p>\n
Their father needed help.<\/p>\n
And I could provide it without pretending that my own grief had disappeared.<\/p>\n
I looked down at the little girl.<\/p>\n
Her face was peaceful for the moment.<\/p>\n
I remembered Ada's face.<\/p>\n
Not perfectly.<\/p>\n
Not in every detail.<\/p>\n
But clearly enough to feel the familiar ache.<\/p>\n
I remembered her ears.<\/p>\n
Her ten fingers.<\/p>\n
Her small mouth searching for me.<\/p>\n
I remembered the warmth of her cheek.<\/p>\n
I remembered how frightened I had been.<\/p>\n
And I remembered loving her.<\/p>\n
That memory had not disappeared while I cared for the twins.<\/p>\n
It had remained with me.<\/p>\n
Quiet sometimes.<\/p>\n
Painful sometimes.<\/p>\n
But present.<\/p>\n
I looked toward Thomas's Bible.<\/p>\n
I could still picture him holding it.<\/p>\n
I could still remember the life we had shared.<\/p>\n
I knew I would continue missing him.<\/p>\n
I knew I would continue missing Ada.<\/p>\n
Nothing at Cedar Run could change that.<\/p>\n
But I no longer believed grief required me to stand still.<\/p>\n
I could carry those memories into another room.<\/p>\n
I could hold another child.<\/p>\n
I could offer nourishment.<\/p>\n
I could rest when my body needed rest.<\/p>\n
I could speak my daughter's name without apologizing.<\/p>\n
Those things were not signs that I loved her less.<\/p>\n
They were signs that I was still alive.<\/p>\n
The little girl moved against me.<\/p>\n
I adjusted the brown blanket.<\/p>\n
Caleb rose to take her when she was settled.<\/p>\n
His son stirred inside the green one.<\/p>\n
I watched the familiar exchange begin again.<\/p>\n
Another feeding would come.<\/p>\n
Another anxious moment.<\/p>\n
Another opportunity to help.<\/p>\n
I did not know what the future held for any of us.<\/p>\n
I was not ready to make promises about it.<\/p>\n
But I knew what I could do that day.<\/p>\n
I could stay.<\/p>\n
I could care for the twins.<\/p>\n
And I could remember Ada June Mercer without asking these children to become anything other than themselves.<\/p>\n
Source: life5.aubtu.biz<\/a><\/em><\/p>\n There was a moment when I realized I had stopped counting the hours since I arrived at Cedar Run. That surprised me. After Ada died, time had become something I … <\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":3,"featured_media":11230,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[1],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-11246","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-drama-sory"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/lastestdrama.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/11246","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/lastestdrama.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/lastestdrama.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/lastestdrama.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/3"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/lastestdrama.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=11246"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/lastestdrama.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/11246\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":11266,"href":"https:\/\/lastestdrama.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/11246\/revisions\/11266"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/lastestdrama.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/media\/11230"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/lastestdrama.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=11246"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/lastestdrama.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=11246"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/lastestdrama.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=11246"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}
\nClick here to continue reading: PART 17: I Had Learned to Feed Caleb’s Children Without Pretending They Were Mine, but I Still Feared the Day They Would No Longer Need Me<\/a><\/strong><\/h2>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"