The bread and weak tea had been served. The girls enjoyed their meal, and with the love that characterized them, each of them approached to receive their mother's kiss and his father's wishes for a good rest. Margaret March saw them leave the room and, when the footsteps on the stairs were completely extinguished, she glanced her husband nearly furious. Her lips parted to speak and then, with a tense movement, she closed them until they became a thin line.
Jonathan March lowered the paper, his eyes quietly looked at his wife, knowing well the turmoil that seethed within her. He had witnessed it during so many small misfortunes carried by poverty. The good man suffered to see her, but the decision was made and, with God's help, he would fulfill his duty in the battlefield.
"I must go," he murmured putting the printout on a table, "it is my duty..."
"I beg you, do not talk now about the country..."
She got up and walked with long strides toward the windows. The summer night was beautiful and she felt like a widow. He approached her and lifted the curtain trying to see what it was that drew her attention, as nothing extraordinary was happening outside, Jonathan passed his arms around her waist.
"Go..." she sighed, resting her weight on his body. "Go, because there are so many young people alone, because all soldiers need to remember that the Lord is with them; Go, because you are outraged that someone treat a man like you do not want to be treated or because your charity thus impels you, but do not try to sell me the speech of the country and the glory of the nation!"
He nuzzled her neck, well aware of how many sacrifices his resolution entailed for her, but unable to to stand back without feeling that he betrayed everything he believed in.
"I will keep the home," she promised, unable to hold back the tears. "I will work and look after the girls, I'll wait and pray. God willing, you will return safe and sound, until then, may God hold you in His hand, my dear."
Jonathan had no words to express how beautiful Margaret seemed to him at this time. The war in the battlefield was awful, but the real heroes were those who stayed behind and bravely bore the vicissitudes of conflict. There were no words to praise the woman he had in his arms.
"God will provide," he promised, using his fingers to lift her face toward him, trying to etch her features in his memory.
"God will provide," she said with a sigh before getting up at the tip of her worn shoes.