"If this is some elaborate ruse to win my favor, do not bother with it. As I told Becca, I will not be a nurse"
Teacup brimming with warm milk in hand, Hannah knocks on Emmy’s bedroom door. She waits. She leans toward the door, hoping to hear the call: Come in.
It doesn’t come.
Her mother never knocked on doors. Not that there were doors at home. Only curtains. But even if there had been, her mother’s arms would have been burdened with laundry or firewood or a neighbor’s baby, and there wouldn’t have been a free hand to knock.
There is a sound. A groan, perhaps? Enough to justify Hannah turning the handle and walking inside.
Emmy blinks. “Oh, Mama, it is you.”
She sets the teacup and saucer beside her daughter’s bed. “I brought you some hot milk. With a little honey.”
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