For it made me careless in that moment.

I discerned this later upon reflection. If I’d been more vigilant, I could have prepared for the significance of the sounds to come: the squeaking of a stroller being wheeled into the store, the grunts of frustration from inside the carriage, a woman’s assurances about going home soon.

None of these on their own were out of the ordinary, certainly not while at a market. But my circumstances had changed, my perspective shifted to that of a soon-to-be wife. If I’d been clearheaded, I would have recognized this and shielded myself before the infant unleashed a tearful wail. It was the sort of cry that, these days, caused me but mild agitation from a timeworn scratching at the door of my memories. Yet when the woman, now behind me, drew the baby to her shoulder and rocked and patted its tiny body, the door within me swung open, pulling me back to the aftermath of the stampede—to a lifeless mother being prayed over, her infant bawling inconsolably.

“Now, now, sweetheart,” the woman in the market soothed. “Mama is here. Everything will be all right.”

It was a comfort every child needed, even deserved to hear, though such words from my lips would carry no truth. I knew firsthand how fast a kid of any age could wind up alone, dumped in an orphanage like tainted goods in a junkyard. For me to be personally responsible for an injustice within that realm was…unthinkable.

By the time the woman calmed her baby, a painful clarity had speared me to the core: I would never be her.

I could never be a mother.

That reality, I supposed, had long been lurking at the borders of my mind. Unconscious denial had allowed me to avoid picturing myself a spinster. But now at a crossroads, forced to make a choice, the idea of marrying and becoming a parent conjured angst to the point of nausea.

Someday, Arie had said, we’d have a family of our own. He wanted to be a father. All these years, that much was a given, and rightly so. He’d be extraordinary. Not only would he be a kindhearted provider, same as Mr. Jansen, but also a fierce protector hell-bent on keeping his little ones safe. At least he’d try—like so many men in Eden Springs. Like even the father who bore a mountainous build yet collapsed under the weight of that tiny coffin, broken by the loss of three children not even he could save.

If I told Arie where I stood, I knew he’d understand. He would insist it didn’t matter, that he’d need only me to be happy.

And he would be lying.

***