“If only your grandmother lived closer.” As I had wished for my mother’s encouragement during my labor, now I wished for her advice. My problem was not the kind one could bring up in a letter that the whole family would read after dinner.

I focused on my tasks, then soon lunch was ready, darling Wil taking another nap, and nothing for me to do but wait. I didn’t dare sit down for fear that I would fall asleep. I stood at the window, examining the occupants of every carriage.

I said many prayers until, finally, an open fiacre turned down the street with two men inside, both waving as soon as they saw me in the window. I waved back, buoyed by relief. “Thank God.”

I ran to check myself in the mirror and patted down my hair. I had a minute or two while the men climbed the stairs. I even had a chance to straighten the kitchen chairs. Then the front door opened, and I rushed to greet our treasured visitor, who had the same blue eyes and copper hair as my Theo, and the same mustache. Yet he was a harder man, at a glance, with heavy-ridged brows and prominent cheekbones, reminding me of men of the fields who’d seen hunger and earned their living with physical labor.

“Welcome in our home.”

“And this must be Jo?” The brothers even sounded alike.

I embraced Vincent awkwardly. He could not embrace me back. Both he and Theo were laden with bags, canvases, and Vincent’s portable easel, which all poured into our small apartment.

I drew back into the kitchen, out of their way, and stood there nervously while Theo began to look through the pile, even before taking off his hat. He made approving sounds, but all he said was “Where are the rest of your paintings? You’ve written about more in your letters.”

“I gave most of them away before I left.” Vincent sank into the nearest kitchen chair. “Too cumbersome to carry on the train.”

I quickly set a bottle of wine on the table. “How was your trip? Was the train car hot?”

“And crowded.” He reached for the bottle, but Theo dragged him to the bedroom, beaming with fatherly pride. “Meet my son. Vincent Willem van Gogh.”

I paused my work to stand behind the men. My sweet son truly was a precious child. Even strangers on the street stopped me to admire him.

“Ah, the little one.” Vincent offered a quick smile, then returned to the kitchen. “You mustn’t spoil him.”

Of course, small babies were not exciting to anyone but their mothers. Especially when asleep. Vincent spent most of his life surrounded by artists and visionaries, used to more intellectually stimulating company than little Wil and me.

He sat at the table and poured himself wine, turning his attention to his paintings on the walls. Then he launched into a discussion with Theo in French.