Chapter 2: A Mother’s Warning

It was the talk of the town for weeks. I could feel everyone’s eyes on me at the grocery store, and even the pastor made a gentle joke about it at Sunday service.

After receiving Nathaniel’s birth date card, my mom frowned anxiously, sighing over and over.

She sat at the kitchen table, turning the card over in her hands, her lips pressed tight. "I’ve heard the Whitmores’ seventh son wants nothing to do with marriage, just thinks about running off to find himself. No wonder all the society girls passed him by—so Mrs. Whitmore wants to hire you. She must think I’m good at having kids and wants you to give her a grandchild."

She slapped her thigh. "Won’t you end up a living widow in the future?"

Her voice echoed in the kitchen, and even the cat paused in his grooming to look up. The idea of being left behind, raising children alone, weighed heavy on her mind. She’d seen it happen before—neighbors who married dreamers, only to be left with the bills and the babies.

With Dad’s job, Mom couldn’t risk offending Mrs. Whitmore. My sisters’ husbands were officials, too—if they heard about this, wouldn’t it drag them in? My second and third brothers were also talking about marriage—if things went badly, it could mess up their chances, too…

It was a web of family politics, the kind that made holiday dinners tense if someone said the wrong thing. My mother wrung her hands, torn between protecting me and keeping peace with everyone else.

But if we agreed to this marriage, my mom was scared I’d suffer after marrying into the Whitmore family.

She looked at me with sad eyes, the kind that said she wanted to fix everything but couldn’t. I could see her doing the math in her head—what would it cost us if I said no? What would it cost me if I said yes? I didn’t have an answer.

I was just curious and asked, "Nathaniel already has six older brothers. Does it really matter if he has a kid or not?"

I couldn’t help but wonder out loud. Honestly, how many grandkids does one woman need?

Mrs. Whitmore should already be surrounded by grandkids.

It was almost funny, the way some folks got stuck on tradition. I’d seen Mrs. Whitmore fuss over her other grandchildren at church picnics, but somehow, it was never enough.

Mom shook her head helplessly. "He’s the seventh son in the whole clan, but Mrs. Whitmore only has this one precious boy! They say she prayed for him every day at St. Paul’s Church, lighting candles for months just to have him."

The way she said it, I pictured Mrs. Whitmore kneeling at the front pew, the whole church quiet except for her whispered prayers. Around here, people believed in that sort of thing.

Oh. So that’s how it was.

Suddenly, it made sense—the candles, the prayers, the way Mrs. Whitmore hovered over Nathaniel like he might disappear at any moment.

I went over and gently patted my mom’s back. "Mom, you don’t have to worry. This seems like a good deal for everyone."

Was I really ready for this? Maybe. Maybe not. But I wasn’t about to let Mom see me sweat.

"If I can give Nathaniel a son or daughter, the Whitmores will always have a place for me. In such a fancy household, wearing nice clothes and eating good food—how is that suffering?"

I let myself imagine it for a moment: dinners with real silverware, dresses that didn’t come from hand-me-down boxes, rooms with thick carpets and soft beds. It sounded like a dream compared to our noisy farmhouse.

I went on, "If Nathaniel really does leave to go find himself, the Whitmores will probably feel guilty toward me. Not only will they not treat me badly, they’ll probably help our family even more."

It was a practical calculation, and I could see my mother weighing the possibilities. Maybe, just maybe, this could be the best thing that ever happened to us.

Dad, my brothers, even my brothers-in-law could all benefit—why not?

In a small town, family ties ran deep. If the Whitmores took care of us, doors would open that had always been closed.

Besides, my mom is so good at having kids. Surely, I will be too!

I grinned at her, hoping to lighten the mood. "It must run in the family, right?"

Mom’s eyes turned red as she pulled me into her arms. "Grace, you’re so thoughtful."

She hugged me tight, her voice thick with emotion. I could feel her heart pounding against my shoulder, and for a second, I was just her little girl again.