After Rita Sue left, Leah slid her feet into her slippers. It felt good to walk around the maternity ward after five days lying in bed and another five sitting in bed.

Leah picked up Clay’s V-mail—tiny but so quickly delivered. She padded to the window, her white cotton nightgown brushing her ankles. Only one other mother was in the ward, fast asleep.

The V-mail had arrived that afternoon, and Leah had read it twice. Mr. and Mrs. Paxton had told her about Wyatt when the hospital let her make a long-distance call to Texas. Now Clay knew too, and he’d poured out his heart to her about acting like the Prodigal’s elder brother.

In the afternoon sunlight, Leah squinted at Clay’s handwriting. His letter had been written on a special V-mail form and photographed in England, then the microfilm had been shipped overseas and the letter reprinted in miniature in the US.

For the past three years, I’ve sat on a seesaw in the up position. I’ve taken satisfaction in my perch, high in the knowledge of my righteousness and looking down on my brothers’ wickedness.

Full forgiveness would level that beam, and I admit, that’s why I’ve resisted.

Now I see how wrong I’ve been.

My lack of forgiveness only heaps sin onto my side of the beam, leveling the balance whether I like it or not. Now Wyatt and Adler have something to forgive me for.

One way or the other, that beam will be leveled. I can do it my way, adding the weight of my sin to the beam. Or I can do it God’s way, releasing the weight of their sin in my life and letting them rise.

Only one way leads to peace. Only one way leads to restoration. I am choosing that way.

Leah kissed the page. “How I love you, you wonderful man.”

Now to write her reply. The Lord would have to help her select the right words and speed her letter to Clay. Spring was deepening, and time was running short.

With her pen and her new box of V-mail stationery in hand, Leah sat in the bedside chair.

A man and woman entered the ward. The man was tall with graying blond hair, and he wore a gray suit. Small but sturdy, the woman wore a lavender floral shirtwaist dress, silver streaked her black hair, and dark eyes shone in the deep bronze of her face.

Could it be? “Mr. and Mrs. Paxton?”

“Leah! Mija!” The woman rushed over, kissed Leah’s forehead, and grasped her shoulders. “Let me look at you. Why, you’re even prettier than your picture. Isn’t she, Will?”

“She certainly is.” His Texas twang sounded so much like Clay’s it hurt.

“I—I didn’t know you were coming.”