My mother’s visit sped by. Aunt Beth had arranged to take the days off from work, and then set about filling them with plans. We went to the art museum and the historical society and the botanical gardens. We spent one night outside among a patchwork of picnic blankets, illuminated by citronella candles, and listened to the symphony.

Sometimes Uncle John was with us, but most evenings he slipped into his study after dinner. It was the end of summer session, and he was busy grading final exams and getting lesson plans ready for the fall. But I also suspected that he was giving us our time together. I tried to call Josh each day, sometimes just to hear how delighted he was at the sound of my voice.

I was most excited about the musical play my aunt had told me about, and when that night arrived, I entered the theater with a giddiness I hadn’t felt since the lights had dimmed at my first movie. But unlike in the movies, the people were real, and they stood a mere few feet away from us. It was over too soon, and when the actors assembled on the square stage to bow to the audience, I felt a little sad to say good-bye to them.

As we filed out of the theater, slowed by the crowd, a little girl who had been walking beside us stopped and pointed at my mother. “Were you in the play?” she asked.

“I’m sorry,” said the girl’s mother, tugging at the child’s pointed finger. Heads turned toward us, and we were enveloped in stares.

Smiling at the girl, my mother said, “No, I wasn’t in the play. This is how I dress.”

The mother pulled the girl away, and the crowd resumed their movements toward the exit. I could hear murmurs around us. “Must be Amish,” a man whispered loudly.

Beth turned around, her eyes searching for the source of the whisper, a look of irritation on her face. We reached the door and stepped out into the cool evening, walking to the car in silence.

In the car, Beth sighed. “All that gawking.”

“Let it go, Beth.” My mother’s voice was quiet, but there was a tightness around her words. “When we choose to be different, we have to expect a little attention.”

Back at Beth’s house, we went into the kitchen for tea, as had become our custom during these days together. We sat quietly, a plate of cookies on the table, our cups of tea warm and fragrant.

“It still bothers you, the way people look at us,” my mother said to Beth. It was a statement, but also a question.

Beth nodded. “It does. I hated it, Becky. I hated that life.”

“So, John didn’t really take you away.”

“No,” said Beth. “I probably would have left eventually. He just made it easier.”

“You know, I always felt responsible,” my mother said. “I always wondered if there was something I could have said or done that would have made things different for you.”

When Beth spoke, she exhaled the words, making them sound weighty. “There was.”

My mother’s voice was quiet and formal when she asked, “What should I have done?”

Beth looked up from her cup of tea, her eyes searching my mother’s. “You should have been on my side when I went under the bann. I needed you to be on my side.”

My mother shook her head in a sad way. “That’s why I told you my story. I wanted you to understand that when you were facing the bann, I wasn’t in a position to support you. Being Good Amish was the only way I knew to put my life back together.”

Beth got up from the table and carried her cup to the sink. I glanced at my mother, but she was looking down, studying her cooling tea. Finally Beth spoke, her back to my mother and me. “I just realized something,” she said. “You were welcomed home for telling a lie. I was driven away for telling the truth. I guess the Amish are funny that way. It doesn’t matter if you’re being honest or not, as long as you say what they want to hear.”

My mother pushed her chair away from the table and stood up.

“I’ve been punishing myself for the last twenty years,” she said, her voice sliced with anger. “I don’t need you punishing me, too.”

Beth turned around to face my mother. “I don’t judge you for what happened, Becky. I think you were very brave. It was just hard to lose my sister.”

“It was hard for me, too,” said my mother. “You broke my heart when you stopped writing.”

I caught my breath and looked at Aunt Beth. Her eyes were wide, but she didn’t speak. I turned to my mother. “Dad wrote to Aunt Beth and said that her letters were upsetting you. He asked her to stop writing, so she did.” I looked at Beth, her eyes filling with tears, then at my mother, frozen in her spot, her hand covering her mouth. “Aunt Beth thought you knew about Dad’s letter,” I went on. “She thought you wanted him to write it for you.”

She sank back into her chair, her shoulders slumped forward. “No,” she said. “When the letters stopped coming, I thought you were done with me.”

Beth came back to the table and slipped quietly into the chair beside my mother. “Never, Becky,” she said. “I’ll never be done with you. I always hoped you would come and find me.”

My mother looked up and met Beth’s eyes. “And finally I did.”

They sat looking at each other for a moment, small smiles on their faces, before Beth got up and reached forward to pick up the teacups. My mother placed her hand on Beth’s wrist. “Wait,” she said. Beth set the cups down and pulled her chair around so it faced my mother. “There’s something else you need to understand.” My mother swallowed and took a raggedy breath. “I wanted it for you, Beth,” she whispered. “Do you know what I’m saying?”

Beth leaned forward, her knees touching my mother’s. “You wanted me to leave?”

“Staying at home was the right choice for me, but I knew it wouldn’t be right for you,” my mother said, her voice breaking. “I knew you needed to leave to be happy, so I was willing to shun you just to be sure you got this life.”

“Oh, Becky.” Beth reached forward, wrapping her arms around my mother. They were both crying now. I swallowed hard and pushed back my chair. I stepped toward the kitchen door, my eyes still on my mother and Aunt Beth, holding each other, breathing deep, jagged sobs. “Oh, Becky,” Beth said again, as I slipped out of the kitchen.

I tiptoed upstairs, my heart pounding, a worry nestled in my chest. Had my mother accepted a life she didn’t want? When I went back downstairs a few minutes later, my mother and aunt were sitting together on the living room couch. Their eyes were red-rimmed, but their expressions were peaceful. I settled on the couch beside my mother. She was silent for a moment before she turned to me. “Do you understand about the trouble a girl can get into?”

“Of course I do,” I said.

She shook her head. “So did I. But it happened to me anyway.” Her voice grew gentle when she added, “I know about your young man, Eliza. And I think that he’s the reason you asked for more time here.”

That was the first time my mother mentioned my wish to stay longer. Aunt Beth must have told her about Josh. I wanted to be angry, but instead I felt relief. I wanted my mother to know. “He’s only part of the reason,” I said, trying to sound casual. “I’m enjoying all the things I can’t do at home. I also love my work with Rachel’s family. And now that I’ve found Aunt Beth, I can’t bear the thought of leaving her.”

“I know,” said my mother. “But you’ll be leaving a lot more if you stay here.”

I closed my eyes. I wanted to ask her how she felt about the choice she had made, but the words felt tangled up. I opened my eyes to see that my mother and Beth were both looking at me. “You shunned Aunt Beth.”

“I was taught that there is only one way to live,” she said. “And anyone who doesn’t accept that has to leave. It was the only way I could think of to help her.”

“I wish we hadn’t lost those years,” said Beth, her voice like flowing water. “But now I know that my sister wasn’t rejecting me. She was allowing me to have the life I wanted.” Her eyes met my mother’s. “She did it because she loved me.” My mother nodded and made it true.

I turned to my mother. “Do you regret your choice?” I asked. “Do you wish you had this life?”

“I have to admit that at first it was hard. Sometimes I’d catch myself humming a James Taylor song while I hung the clothes on the line, and I’d think about Debbie’s big collection of CDs.” She paused. “But gradually I realized that what I missed were just things. We can do without things easier than we can do without people. What was waiting for me at home was more important than what I left behind.”

“And Dad?” I asked, my voice almost a whisper.

My mother’s eyes locked with mine. “Your father is my hero.”

Relief trickled through me. My mother’s story was told, and mine was still in the making. There was so much work ahead.