my mother said as we ate breakfast in the small courtyard off the kitchen—a meal featuring poached eggs, toast, and bacon. Despite the late morning sun, a chill ran down my spine underneath my laced purple corset and heavy woolen skirt. She set her fork down and wiped her mouth. Her dark blonde hair was brushed to a shine and her face caked with makeup to hide the hollowness of her eyes and cheeks. She stared across the grounds and watched the water stream from the fountain, framed by large fieldstone boulders covered with moss. The sound was comforting on a normal day, but now reminded me of a rushing river of angst. “Do you know when? How long do we have?” She shook her head. “Just a feeling.” I trusted Mom’s intuition. She’d yet to be wrong on dictating father’s returns. I stood at the iron table and wanted to gag, but I forced the bile back and steadied myself with a hand on the metal.
