Cover

Dedication

FOR MOMMY.

Only now that I’m a mother do I begin to understand the depth of your love for your children.

Not one book—not ten books—could convey my thankfulness for you.

But it’s a start.

This one’s for you, and for all the sacrifices you made in the name of love, Jesus, and motherhood.

Map

Chapter 1
Myrthe

I didn’t cry until I was twelve years old.

Mutti and Pappje had caught the pox . . . from me. I’d recovered a fortnight prior and was still weak, unable to fully walk normally again. Oma said the pox ate away some of my bone. That didn’t stop me from sitting by their bedsides—in agony—day and night.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered.

“Myrthe,” my mutti rasped, reaching out a hand so frail the veins popped like scars. I gripped it in my own. Then I grabbed Pappje’s limp one. I held the two to my lips. Kissed their knuckles.

“I’m here.” How long would they know that? How long would they see and comprehend? Pappje hadn’t woken in days. Not even when we half-heartedly celebrated my birthday on the winter solstice last week. Mutti spent most days in feverish delirium. Every time I asked Oma when they’d get better, she responded with a crisp, “They may not.”

They grew worse by the day. Oma did what she could for them. Soup. Water. She made me chop and haul firewood into our humble canal cottage despite my limp and the pain shooting up my left leg with every other step.

I didn’t complain.

But none of our efforts changed the sickly pallor on my parents’ faces.

So I chopped more firewood. I plucked feathers from geese bought from markt, and while Oma boiled the meat, I stuffed the feathers into quilt squares and laid them over my parents.

Oma was wrong. I got better. So would Mutti and Pappje.

Chills seized Mutti’s body as though the three quilts atop her were made of paper. I adjusted them. Again. Pulled my own hat off and settled it over her icy brow.

That’s when the burning began in my throat. A fist of fire constricting my air. It moved to my eyes. Was I growing ill? This foreign sensation hurt, but it felt right. Like sorrow straining for release.

I bent my head over their clasped hands, listening to Mutti’s ragged breathing. This was all my fault. If I’d gotten better sooner, maybe they’d still be well.

“Oh, Mutti . . . I wish you’d never known me.” Never birthed me. Never hugged me and caught my illness. “I wish this would end.”

Get better. Get better. Please get better. It had been so different being under Oma’s cold care these past several weeks. Come back to me.