The new family sat around the table. Antonia held Jacques, who was almost asleep. On her right, Henri nodded over his tin plate. The baby slept in a cradle near Antonia’s feet. Outside the windows, the velvety purple dusk softened the landscape and darkened the interior of the house. A glass lamp burned on the table, another luxury Antonia wasn’t used to. At night, the fire had been their only illumination, and in the warmth of summer, they often let it go out after she’d cooked supper. The breeze through the open window brought the faint smell of kerosene her way. Erik sat across from her. The lamplight cast shadows over his weary face. He rubbed a hand over his eyes. He’s probably desperately tired but doesn’t want to go sleep in the bed where Daisy died. Antonia didn’t blame him. She wouldn’t want to, either. “You probably didn’t sleep last night.” Erik shook his head. “Daisy was in labor the whole time.” The words had to be said, and Antonia braced herself for the conversation.
