He looked at her.
Something passed between them.
Not a plan yet.
Months later, the county pastor mentioned two sisters whose parents had died during an influenza outbreak.
Ages seven and ten.
Relatives could not take both.
Emily listened.
Daniel listened harder.
That evening, neither spoke for nearly an hour.
Finally Emily said:
“Don't.”
Daniel looked innocent.
“Don't what?”
“Pretend you're not thinking it.”
“I was not pretending.”
“You have been rearranging the same harness for twenty minutes.”
He put it down.
“What are you thinking?”
Emily asked.
He looked toward the house.
“That maybe a family can arrive through the front door instead of the way I always imagined.”
Her throat tightened.
“Daniel.”
“I’m not saying we should.”
“Neither am I.”
“Good.”
Silence.
Then Emily said:
“What were their names?”
Daniel smiled.
“Ruth and Clara.”
Three weeks later, the girls visited.
Not to be adopted.
Not officially.
Just supper.
Ruth, ten, was suspicious of everything.
Clara, seven, asked seventeen questions before removing her coat.
“Do horses sleep standing?”
“Sometimes,” Daniel said.
“Why?”
“Because they can.”
“That isn't an answer.”
Daniel looked at Emily.
“She’s yours.”
Emily laughed.
The girls returned the next Sunday.
Then again.
By spring, legal papers began.
Nothing moved quickly.
Relatives had rights.
County approval.
Pastor letters.
Home inspection.
Daniel repaired the upstairs room he once imagined for biological children.
Emily chose yellow curtains.
Ruth hated yellow.
They changed them to green.
Clara insisted on flowers.
They compromised.
Green with flowers.
The girls moved in officially in June.
The first night, Emily stood outside their bedroom listening to them whisper.
Daniel came behind her.
“Are they asleep?”
“No.”
“How do you know?”
“They're discussing whether you're actually as strict as you pretend.”
Daniel frowned.
“What’s the conclusion?”
“Clara thinks you're soft.”
“Clara is banned from breakfast.”
Emily laughed.
Daniel wrapped one arm around her waist.
He whispered:
“You all right?”
She nodded.
Then shook her head.
Then cried.
Daniel sighed.
“I recognize this.”
“Good tears.”
“Apparently.”
She leaned into him.
“I thought I would always feel like something was missing.”
“Do you?”
Emily looked through the partly open door.
Two little girls.
One bed each.
Clothes folded badly.
A wooden horse Daniel carved.
Books.
Life.
“No.”
She whispered.