I smiled.
Then turned toward the next guest.
"Would you like another helping?"
The man nodded gratefully.
"Yes, ma'am."
I filled his bowl.
And felt happier than I could explain.
But the greatest change came through Annie.
As she grew older, she became curious about everything.
She asked William about the mountains.
She asked me about cooking.
She asked her mother about the places they had lived.
And she asked the sheriff questions about the old mine investigation whenever she saw him in the settlement.
Some questions were easy.
Others painful.
We tried to answer honestly, in ways she could understand.
We did not tell her that every adult had made good choices.
We did not pretend the past was simple.
But we made sure she knew none of it was her fault.
When she turned thirteen, she began keeping a journal.
At first, she wrote about ordinary things.
The weather.
The horses.
The meals.
The people who visited.
Then she began recording stories.
An elderly widow's memories of crossing the mountains.
A timber worker's account of surviving a terrible winter.
A traveling teacher's description of the cities beyond the valley.
Annie discovered she loved listening.
And writing.
One evening, she approached me with a notebook.
"Rose?"
I looked up from my sewing.
"Yes?"
"Can I ask you something?"
"Of course."
She sat beside me.
"Why do you always make chicken and dumplings on Sunday?"
I laughed softly.
"Because your father would complain if I didn't."
She smiled.
"Really?"
"Partly."
Then I grew thoughtful.
"My mother used to make it."
Annie nodded.
"Was she a good cook?"
"The best."
She smiled.
"Like you?"
I laughed.
"Better."
Annie stared.
"Impossible."
I laughed harder.
Then she became serious.
"Why was it important?"
I looked toward the fireplace.
For a moment, I could almost see my mother standing at her old stove.
Her hands dusted with flour.
Her apron tied neatly.
Her warm smile.
Then I answered.
"Because she believed one meal each week should remind everyone that they belonged somewhere."
Annie considered.
"Even strangers?"
"Especially strangers."
She looked down at her notebook.
Then began writing.
I watched.
"What are you doing?"
"Remembering."
I smiled.
"That's a good thing to remember."
She nodded.
Then looked up.
"Rose?"
"Yes?"
"Do you think the worst thing that ever happened to someone should be the first thing people know about them?"
The question surprised me.
I set down my needle.
"What makes you ask?"
She looked toward the old stove.
"Sometimes people hear about how I hid behind the wall."
I nodded.
"And?"