“I know, baby. We’re almost there.”
“Where’s there?”
“Our new home.”
“Is Papa there?”
Margaret’s throat closed. She couldn’t speak. Couldn’t breathe.
“Papa’s in heaven, Birdie.” Rosie’s voice was gentle, old beyond her 12 years. “Remember? He’s watching over us from heaven.”
“But I want him here.”
“I know. I want him here, too.”
Silence fell over the wagon, heavy as the snow that had started falling again. Margaret looked at her children. Really looked at them for the first time in weeks. Tommy with his father’s jaw and his father’s stubborn pride. Rosie with her quiet strength and her endless journals. Patrick, who never stopped moving, never stopped asking questions. The twins, identical and inseparable, finishing each other’s sentences. Colleen, who’d stopped talking almost entirely since Daniel died. Samuel, who still set a place for Papa at every meal. Martha, who’d taken to carrying her father’s old pocket watch everywhere she went. And Bridget, sweet Bridget, who’d never know her father at all.
Nine children. Her nine reasons to keep breathing.
