There were so many to choose from—mesh, moss, single, double—but she’d landed on a simple shell stitch. Its scalloped look evoked a sense of gentleness to her and she thought it would be such a sweet keepsake for the baby. Not one for pastels, she’d chosen an emerald green yarn—John’s favorite color.

She opened the door before a second ring, not wanting to disturb her parents, who had spent the day reviewing the year’s scant financial receipts for the cobbler shop and were now preparing for bed.

One look at the man in uniform turned her stomach sour.

She slipped out the door and closed it behind her.

No, no, no, no, no.

Because there were only two reasons for such a visit, neither of them good.

“Telegram,” he said, handing an envelope out. He stood at attention on the stoop and looked as if he’d prefer to be anywhere but here.

“Thank you,” she whispered. Her voice caught in her throat, and she held her hand out, her actions moving slower than her racing mind.

She stuffed the paper into her pocket, opened the door, and stepped back into the house, watching him through the glass as he got back into his car.

Her heart beat rapidly and the heat of her worried breaths created a fog on the pane.

She rested her head against it and wondered how she’d muster the strength to face what seemed inevitable.

She turned around. Dottie was no longer in the living room—probably upstairs, citing lately that her bladder was the size of a thimble. Gladys was concentrating on a stitch that seemed to be giving her a problem.

So Margaret walked into the kitchen, needing a moment alone before sharing this with her friends.

She gripped the wood counter until her knuckles matched the flour still scattered over the surface from when she had made bread earlier in the evening. One loaf had just come out of the oven and its warm aroma still overtook the kitchen.

John loved that scent.

She let go and sliced the fresh bread into three thick pieces and spread some butter from the crock over its divots, watching detachedly as it melted into nothingness.

Despair washed over her and she hung her head. She took deep breaths, telling herself that nothing was wrong.

Nothing was wrong.

Nothing was wrong.

Dash it—her eyes welled up with tears and she wiped them away with a tea towel.

She placed the bread on a plate and walked back into the living room, taking a deep breath as she did.

“Margaret?” asked Dottie as she made her way downstairs. “Who was that?”

“T-t-telegram,” whispered Margaret. She wanted to pull herself together for Dottie’s sake, but found that it was taking all of her concentration just to move her feet and hands and mouth. She set the plate down and pulled the envelope from her pocket.