His parents would have never divorced. He didn’t know anyone who’d been divorced. But if Julia was gone for good, his dreams of children to pass his farm to were over. No use kidding himself, Jake thought. His time with Julia had led him far past a helpmate and someone to bury him. Her gee-gaws and painting and wall-papering were done with anticipation and an unspoken plan. Julia had prepared his home to be a place he wanted to spend time in and that children would be happy in.All the little things his mother had done before she died flew through his head. Paper chains at Christmas. Cherry pies for the Fourth of July. Sharpened pencils in a tin can for his ciphering. All the little details he’d scoffed at that still burned in his memory. His children, if Julia and he had any, would remember doilies under lamps, paper dolls and a cozy room with a fireplace and rugs and throw pillows. Julia probably did all those things half-happy for their children to come and half-sad for the daughter who’d never enjoy it.After a few days of self-imposed exile from his family, Jake had cooled off.
