I tear up when she treats me so kindly. I wonder if my own child could be like her? A funny, smart, winsome little thing with a caring heart? But then I remember my child is also Martin Drapple’s child, and I feel ill.

How can this be happening to me? I lie on my mattress, Nellie often curled up next to me, asking myself that question over and over again.

I have no answer.

Wednesday, July 24, 1940

Last night, Mrs. Williams and I were sewing in the living room when she suddenly asked me if she was ever going to see her boy again.

I don’t know what got into me. I broke down crying. It was her voice, so different from her usual voice. It had pain in it—the pain of a mama who knows she might never again see her child. I went over to where she sat on the sofa and put my arms around her. She didn’t soften or return my embrace, but I didn’t care. I know she still blames me for getting Jesse into this terrible mess. But I needed the comfort of a human touch, and I held her as long as I dared.

“I sure hope so,” I said, when I finally pulled away. I told her I hoped we’d both get to see him again someday soon, but I know that will never happen. It’s too dangerous for him to come home. Mrs. Williams turned away from my impossible words. Most likely, neither of us will ever see Jesse again.

Friday, July 26, 1940

I was taking my turn in the bathtub last night when I felt the baby move. At first I thought it was some odd bubbling in the bathwater, but then I realized what it was. I guess most women feel joy at that sensation, but it made me sick to my stomach. Maybe I’d been denying what was really happening in my body all this time. I don’t know. What I do know is that I felt no joy, only the horrible realization that a part of Martin Drapple is still alive and, worse than that, it’s alive inside me.

I rushed out of the tub, put on a robe Mrs. Williams had given me, and ran down the hall to Aunt Jewel’s room.

I have been in her room several times. She checks my blood pressure there, takes my temperature. Feels my belly. Hers is the most sterile-feeling room in the house. There is nothing on the top of her bureau or vanity dresser. Her spotless yellow bedspread has sharp corners and is tucked smoothly beneath her pillow. She does have a bookshelf lined with what I assume are books about midwifery, and even the tops of the books look free from dust. I don’t clean in this room—there is nothing to clean—so I know she keeps it that way on her own.