After rising at four-thirty to bake two loaves of bread, I set to work scrubbing the upstairs hallway and the spare room, determined to be a helpful daughter and to make up for the chores Mamma could no longer do because of her worsening health.

That done, I sorted through my drawers of clothing and noticed the small wooden box where I’d saved a few favorite items, including handmade Valentine cards from girl cousins and my sweet younger sister, Britta. Inside was a pinecone, sprayed white and with a dried holly sprig attached to it, a gift from Obie Yoder, my friend since our third-grade year. That had also been the year my brother Eli—ten months older—was struck and killed by a hit-and-run driver not far from our house.

I paused to glance out my upstairs window at the thick grove of willows below, over near the large pond. The lengthy, supple branches swayed gently as a breeze blew through them. Such a peaceful spot. I thought back to the many times I’d sat in Dat’s old rowboat and cried after Eli’s sudden death, missing my close-in-age brother.

So long ago now . . .

Tomorrow, I would mark yet another birthday without my brother or father. Obie was coming to join my family for cake and ice cream, as he’d promised last Saturday at market.

Just like him, wanting to share the day with me.

Next morning, I baked a three-layer fudge birthday cake for myself. Baking and decorating cakes was something I enjoyed doing, as well as tending to Mamma’s little shop, open every Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday. The small cottage where we sold goat cheese, jams, jellies, and Mamma’s famed Amish peanut butter—that fluffy, sweet spread made with marshmallow—was just across the backyard from the house. I also took orders there, as well as at Saturday market in Bird-in-Hand, for my cross-stitched family trees.

For my birthday get-together, Mamma had invited my older sister, Polly, and her husband, Henry, with their three little ones to come for dessert. My brother Allen and his wife, Sarah, and their six children lived way out in Clark, Missouri, having relocated there last summer. The sudden move had taken Mamma by surprise, as well as everyone else here in Hickory Hollow, but available acreage round Lancaster County was becoming as scarce as hen’s teeth. Allen and Sarah, hungry for land, had joined an established church district there made up primarily of Amish families from Iowa.