Britta rose early again the next morning, an off-Sunday from Preaching, to read from Rules of a Godly Life, then hurried to get ready and out to milk the goats, just like every other day of the week. Britta loved caring for the lively, playful animals, which they had purchased some years ago when Mamma had switched from cow’s milk to goat’s, hoping it might help with her allergies.

When that chore was done, Britta noticed Mamma sitting on the back porch, two of the cats curled up near her bare feet. Seeing that Susie wasn’t anywhere nearby, Britta carried the bucket of goat’s milk into the kitchen. There, she washed her hands thoroughly and poured the delicious milk into clean bottles before placing them in the fridge. Then she rushed back outdoors to talk to Mamma.

“If ya have a moment, I was hopin’ I could ask ya something,” she said as she sat down in the chair next to Mamma.

“It’s so peaceful out, ain’t?” Mamma said, smiling at her. “What’s on your mind, dear?”

Britta hoped she was doing the right thing. “I don’t want ya to think poorly of me,” she began. “But now that I’m a teenager, I thought it might be okay to ask you some things.”

Mamma folded her hands in her lap, a little wrinkle forming between her eyebrows as she frowned slightly, as if puzzled. “All right.”

Britta took a deep breath and forged ahead. “First of all, how did I get my name? I mean, I can tell Britta’s not Amish, since nobody else has my name.”

Mamma visibly stiffened. “Well, that was the name you were given by your Englischer mother.”

Britta’s heart beat faster. “So I wasn’t born Amish, then?”

Mamma shook her head.

Britta nodded, relieved to have this confirmed. “But didn’t you want to name me?” She shifted a little in her chair. “I mean, since you’re Plain.”

Mamma smiled now. “Well, I was only your foster Mamma at first, so I never gave it a second thought, really. I was just so happy to have you in my arms.”

Britta pondered that; then another question bubbled up. “I must’ve been pretty small when you got me,” she said.

“Just a wee infant.” Mamma held out her hands to show how small.

“How old was I?”

“Ten days new.”

Britta considered other questions but felt she should stop asking. She couldn’t really tell by the way Mamma sat so straight in her rocking chair, not moving, if she welcomed more questions. It didn’t seem like Mamma to be so still, as if she was on edge, and Britta felt worse than when she’d decided to forge ahead like this. “Sorry if I’m askin’ too much.”

Mamma turned to look at her again. “I understand your curiosity, dear. Honest, I do.” She gave her a smile.