“Needed doing,” was all Jacob muttered, his gaze fixed on the bowl before him.
“Jacob…” she said, “we need to talk. This—us—it can’t go on like this.”
He looked up then, his features hardening slightly, the lines around his eyes deepening. “What’s there to talk about? I’m here. I’m fulfilling my duties as a husband.”
“Being here isn’t the same as being present,” she retorted. “I feel like I’m living with a ghost sometimes.”
“Maybe that’s all I am now,” he shot back. “Ghosts of men lost, dreams buried—they don’t just vanish because the war ended.”
“Then let me in, Jacob. Let me share the burden,” Poppy pleaded, reaching a tentative hand across the table.
Jacob recoiled slightly before catching himself. He looked at her hand, then slowly placed his own atop it. It was a small gesture, far from the connection Poppy craved, but it was a start, a momentary bridge across the chasm.
The weeks turned into months. Poppy tended to the garden, the vibrant blooms juxtaposing the muted tones of their interactions. Jacob continued his labor, doing all he could to build the farm into something they could be proud of.
In the quiet moments, when the moon hung low and the coyotes howled in the distance, Poppy would lie awake, listening to Jacob’s breathing. And for just a while, as sleep claimed her and the barriers of daylight faded, she allowed herself to believe their love could yet grow strong enough to withstand the trials of the trail and the echoes of war that still lingered in the air.
*****
Poppy stood by the kitchen window. She kneaded dough with practiced hands, each push and fold a rhythmic testament to her dedication. The scent of baked bread soon filled the small cabin, weaving an unspoken invitation to warmth in a space that often felt too quiet.
Outside, Jacob tended to the dairy cows, his silhouette a steady fixture against the horizon. Though he remained distant, she found solace in the assurance that, despite the emotional void between them, he was always there.
“I talked to Mrs. Mitchell today,” she said softly.
“What about?” he asked, not truly interested, but he knew the part he was supposed to play.
“I haven’t been feeling well, and I talked to her about it. She thinks I’m expecting. I’m going to see the doctor tomorrow to make sure.”
For once, Jacob had a reaction, and it warmed Poppy’s heart. “Really? A baby?”
“Would that make you happy?” she asked.
“I honestly can’t think of anything that would make me happier.”
She smiled. “I hope Mrs. Mitchell is right then. I’d love to see you happy.” Because she realized she never had. Whatever he was hiding was keeping him from being able to smile.
For the rest of the evening, he seemed to truly care about her. She knew he was focused on the baby, but hopefully loving the baby would translate into loving its mother. Maybe she wouldn’t feel so alone any longer.
Later, Poppy climbed into bed beside her husband. Even as he slept, turned away, she reached out to lightly touch his arm, feeling the warmth of his skin beneath her fingertips.
“Goodnight, Jacob,” she murmured, letting her hand rest there but a moment longer before withdrawing. “We have tomorrow, and I will not give up on us.”
