I was at the fire, stirring the pot of stew I would take to the dinner, when in the house came my stepson, squinting, with the ax. It was just us.
When would be the right time? I had not yet spoken of Dorothy to him, and with the business of the newcomers, I might not speak to him much at all the rest of the evening. I did not want the weight of her upon me.
Your mother, I said.
He put down the ax.
She loved you so very much, I said.
Why did I not look at him? So little time there is on this earth.
He moved toward me. I heard his feet, then heard them stop.
My grandmum said she slipped, he said.
In his tone was the question. The wonder if it was true. The question I had been asking myself for years. Who was I to tell him any differently? What good would it do him?
I turned to him.
I’m sorry she is not here to see you, to see you now.
Yes, he said and looked away to a corner of the room.
A painting taken from her home in Leiden was on the wall. William thought it had come from the market. But it had been a gift from Johannes.
I remember that, John said, pointing to it.
He looked to the pottery, too.
He glided his hand along the ledge.
I only wanted to eat from this plate. Father said no, that she was indulging me. She would scoop off her own food to put mine upon it. I wish I hadn’t asked for that.
You were a child, I said. It was too soon for me to say: Children take as much as mothers will give them. I would save that for when he had children himself. It was too soon to say, It is their way, to test their mother’s devotion.
I heard William’s boots kick against the house. A sound I loved. The stew was ready, the bread was fresh, and the fire was strong. We would be a family. We were a family.