Mutti’s shivering stopped. Pappje’s hand became weighted, limper than the riverfish we ate in summer. My thumb swiped over something wet.

I looked at Mutti’s and Pappje’s hands in mine. Water smeared their knuckles where my face had rested. Wetness covered my cheek too. Tears—things I’d seen on Mutti’s face but never felt on my own.

Pappje’s hand turned to ice in mine. It suddenly didn’t feel like a hand at all. Startled, I dropped it. His arm fell with a slam against the edge of his cot. A chill entered my chest, though I couldn’t place why.

Something had changed.

Something unnatural.

“Is he dead?” asked a shaky voice beside me.

I nearly jumped out of my calfskin trousers. Mutti struggled to prop an elbow beneath her. Trembling, she stared at Pappje.

I didn’t know which to react to first—her question about Pappje or the fact she was up. Awake. Talking.

“Mutti!” I threw myself into her arms, remembering at the last minute to be gentle.

She didn’t return the embrace but instead slid out of my arms. Color was already returning to her face. “Mutti?”

She had eyes only for Pappje and scrabbled for his hand, nearly toppling out of her cot from the effort. “Koen. Oh, Koen, don’t leave me alone.”

“Mutti, I—”

“Give me peace, child,” she snapped. I startled away. “I’m not your mother.”

I had yet to look at Pappje. I wanted to grasp the joy of Mutti’s return. But . . . what did she mean she wasn’t my mother?

“Ilse.” Oma stepped into the room. If she was surprised to find Mutti awake and recovering, she hardly showed it. “Do you know this child?”

“Wilma!” Mutti reached for Oma. “Your son . . . he is . . . oh, he’s left us.”

“Yes.” Oma stared at the scene, held captive by the still-cold body of her own child.

Tears streamed down my face, but I sat. I waited for Mutti to comfort me. For her to see me. Why was she so angry at my presence? “Mutti?”

“Get this child away from me!” Mutti collapsed over Pappje’s body. “Oh, Koen . . .”

Oma yanked me into her bedroom—the only other room in our small home. I stumbled to the bed when she released me, sobs tearing from my chest. “Oma, what did she mean?”

“You’re crying.” She said it like an accusation, then turned her back to me and rummaged in an old trunk.

I sniffed. Not sure I liked crying. The more I did it, the less in control I felt. I was wet everywhere. My eyes, my nose, my face. But more than that, my chest hurt. “Why did Mutti say she’s not my mother?”