I am a wife and mother who lives in a fine house and I wear nice clothes and I sleep in a warm bed.

When the kitchen is clean, Kat and I go into the sitting room to read and I see my wedding portrait in its gilded frame on the mantel. That’s who I am, I say to myself. I am Mrs. Martin Hocking.

• • •

April slips into May and with it comes warmer weather. I manage to convince Martin one Sunday afternoon to join Kat and me on an excursion to the ocean side of the peninsula to walk along the beach and then have a picnic lunch in Golden Gate Park. Other families are doing the same thing and I am enamored of how much we look like them.

I am happy that evening, content. As we make our way home after a relaxing day, I look over at my husband. I feel a surge of desire for him and I decide I want him in my bed. He is my husband and I want him in my bed. It’s been a long time since I’ve wanted a man to touch me, and I’ve even wondered if I would ever want it again. It’s a scary, thrilling feeling, but a welcome one.

When I retire to my room after Kat is abed, I take extra care with my nighttime preparations. I brush my hair until it glistens, I apply a bit of rosewater to my neck, and I choose the nicest nightdress that I have. And then, just before I slip under the covers, I open my bedroom door wide.

Then I wait for him to come up the stairs. I listen for his footfalls, my heart pounding a little. It seems like a very long time before I hear him on the landing. I sense him pausing at the top. Looking at my open doorway, perhaps? A second later I hear him enter his own room and close the door.

My expectation flutters away. Perhaps he did not see the open door as an invitation. Perhaps it is too soon for him.

Perhaps he doesn’t find me desirable. Perhaps it is a combination of all these things and more.

I roll over onto my side and leave the door open. I am disappointed and hurt. Let him think what he wants about the door being open. I am too tired to get out of bed and close it.

As the weeks roll on after Mrs. Lewis’s visit, I watch Martin with Kat, and I conclude that he is no different from many of the fathers I knew back home in Ireland who didn’t indulge in affection for their children. Some men just didn’t lavish physical attention upon their wee ones. They showed their devotion by how they provided for them.

And while Kat continues to say little when Martin is home, she is saying more and more words when it is just the two of us in the house. With each passing week, everything is settling into its rightful place, except for the fact that I sleep with my door open every night Martin is home and he hasn’t seemed to notice. I write my mother to assure her that in most every respect all is well, since her return letter to me expressed concern that I’d made a hasty decision in marrying Martin.