When Martha got her husband's letter informing her that Alexander would be coming back home, she'd been confused, of course, but also… relieved.
She worried enough about George. The past twenty years of their marriage had been marked by nothing but worry whenever he had to leave her side–and then, their son, their boy who was already in so much danger just for existing, had gone and joined the army.
George had been as furious as he had been worried sick when he had found him, ranked up to Captain already all of his own merit; Martha was just glad he had managed to at least keep him off the battlefield, even if Alex had fought him tooth and nail in the beginning.
She couldn't help but wonder what had happened that had been able to bring on this sudden change of heart in her son, who had both Martha and George's stubbornness and an unbreakable mindset of I do what I want on top of that.
George had neglected to mention anything in the letter.
She would just have to wait and see.
When Alexander arrived after many long days of travel, he looked ragged.
He dropped his pack with a quiet clatter and walked straight into her outstretched arms, clung to her like he never wanted to let go, his whole too thin form trembling in her embrace.
She just held him for a while. Enjoyed having him back, safe and sound where nothing could hurt him, where she wouldn't let anything hurt him.
He had suffered enough. Martha would protect him, as she always had.
She made them some tea, and they sat down together, as though no time at all had passed since Alexander had gone off to college, since he had joined the revolution.
He was silent for a long time when Martha finally asked what had happened that had brought him back to her.
"I'm pregnant, Ma," he said at long last, staring down into his cup, his eyes that looked so much like George's teary and red-rimmed.
It was her turn to be silent, then.
Pregnant. Her boy, her baby, he was having a child himself, he- and out of wedlock. A bastard, even though with Alex- there would have been no other way. He was, well, a he.
No wonder George hadn't said anything in that letter. If that had been intercepted-
"Ma," he said, thin and shaky, as though forcing the words to roll off his tongue was a struggle in itself. "I'm- I'm scared. I'm so, so scared. I- I don't know what I'm doing-"
"Oh, my sweet," she mumbled and set her cup aside, gently took his own from trembling fingers, and gathered him up in her arms.
The situation may have been unconventional, but… nothing she couldn't handle. She was a mother. Martha could guide her son through this pregnancy.
She herself had done it often enough, after all.
A few weeks passed before she dared ask the question that lay burning on her mind ever since her son had disclosed his situation to her.
"Alex," she said one day, standing behind her boy where he sat on a sofa in his father's study, a book open in his lap. Her hands rested on his shoulders, squeezing gently from time to time, rubbing the tense muscle. "Who- I mean, who's the baby's-"
She didn't quite know the right terminology for this. Were they just both the father? Martha couldn't risk saying the wrong thing, Alex had been in a mood lately, and she didn't want to stress him without reason over a wrong word-
"Who's the father?" he cut in, tracing his fingers along the edges of the page he had open, lost in thought. "Is that what you're asking?"
Martha let out a slow breath, relieved.
"Yes," she said and gave an affectionate squeeze to his shoulders.
Alexander stayed quiet for a moment and swallowed. "His name's John. I love him."
Well, Martha thought. At least he wasn't putting himself through this because of a meaningless fling.
If they loved each other- an odd concept, her son with another man. She had never really contemplated what his love life would look like, but she had assumed he would be interested in women.
But no. A man. Would this- could this be considered sodomy?
Unimportant, she told herself. The important thing was that they were in love.
Perhaps they would make a proper family one day, after the war was over, even without a real marriage.
Maybe her son could be happy like this, in spite of all his current struggles.
Alexander's mood took a sharp turn from mildly annoyed to fluctuating between downright hostile and completely catatonic when he started showing.
Martha thought it quite cute, the little baby-bump.
Her son cried himself to sleep most nights.
She didn't- she couldn't understand what he was going through, not possibly, and she didn't know how to make it better, but she tried her best. Offered a smile even though he never smiled back these days. Made him tea and kissed his forehead every time she handed it to him. Let him rest his head on her shoulder when he was tired or queasy with morning-sickness.
Made damn sure that she dropped Alex entirely when she addressed him. Only Alexander.
There may have been a baby growing inside him, but he was still her son.
She just hoped it would be enough.
"I think," he said, staring straight ahead, dried tear-tracks on his blotchy red cheeks, one hand cradling his ever-growing bump. "this would be far more bearable if John and Papa were here."
Martha pressed her lips into a thin line and crossed the room to sit down next to Alexander, her fingers twitching at her sides.
"I know, my darling. I know you miss them," she said, carefully settling her hand on his arm and tracing her thumb back and forth in a soothing motion.
Alexander's breath hitched, and fresh tears welled in his eyes–Martha scooted a little closer.
"He calls me that as well. John. He calls me darling. I wanna hear it again."
She bit her tongue and took a deep breath. Darling was going on the do not mention list.
"I'm sure you will, my sweet. But until you can see him again." She reached her other hand out and covered Alexander's with her own where it rested on his stomach, squeezed his fingers gently. "You have this little one to remind you of him."
Alexander's gaze dropped from its fixed point ahead down to their hands, and fat tears spilled over his lashes. "If it wasn't for this, I wouldn't even have to be apart from him," he said, choked with his tears, and something deep within Martha twisted painfully.
Sometimes she couldn't help but wonder if Alexander felt any love at all for this child.
Well. It wasn't like this was anything entirely out of the norm–a lot of her girlfriends and her had become pregnant around the same time, and a few first-time mothers had expressed worry over feeling... indifferent about the little life growing inside them.
It had passed. All of them loved their children more than anything.
This would pass. Probably.
Alexander was in the last stretches of his pregnancy now, and he had gotten big. As he was supposed to, as was healthy.
He didn't see it that way.
Her son had taken to spending the day in bed with his curtains drawn, and nothing Martha said could coax him out of the shell of darkness he had withdrawn into.
"I just don't want to see any of it," he'd said.
The poor boy couldn't even stand the sight of himself. It was a good thing the pregnancy was drawing to its end, Martha thought; this was taking a toll on Alex, a huge toll, and she so desperately wished she could write to George about it, just to share the burden if not to ask for advice, but- she couldn't.
And really, she shouldn't be complaining–it was George who had it the worst in this, apart from her sweet boy, of course.
He was completely in the dark about their son, there was only so much Martha could convey between the lines, after all.
It would be over soon.
Things would change when the baby was born, she was sure of it.
It was an average labour, she would say, especially for a first-born–it lasted just under ten hours, and Martha rarely left her son's side through it.
She held his hand, stroked the sweat-soaked hair from his forehead, made him take little sips of water whenever he wasn't crying too hard, or screaming, or cursing–she could handle all of that, she had been there herself enough times.
What she couldn't handle was the mumbling.
The quiet words, the choked whimpers of John that made her heart break for her son.
Martha had given birth four times, and all of those babies had been from her first marriage; it had been just her and the midwife, and she had been glad to know her husband far away.
Perhaps her opinion on the matter would have been different if George had been her husband at the time.
Alexander, in any case, longed for his John, but he had to make do with just Martha and the midwife.
Martha had known the woman for years. She had been the one who had guided her through Patsy's birth, and she'd known about Alexander and his situation for almost a decade–Martha trusted her, and so did Alex.
Her son collapsed back into the pillows when the first shrill cry of a newborn split the air, and Martha watched with a smile as the midwife wrapped the baby in a clean towel and took it to the basin of warm water to clean it off, and then she turned to Alexander.
She cupped his face in her hands, kissed his forehead, whispered to him how well he had done.
He just cried into her shoulder for a few minutes, and Martha stroked his back until he had calmed enough for his tears to dry up.
The midwife came back over then, flat heels clacking on the polished wood of the floor, that little bundle carefully cradled in her arms.
"It's a healthy baby girl," she said, smiling softly as she got the newborn settled on Alexander's chest. His arms came up to steady her with noticeable hesitance, and his eyes were blank and empty when they focused on that wrinkly little face.
Nothing happened for several long moments, and Martha locked eyes with the midwife, nodding for her to take her leave. The woman left with a worried glance back at Alexander, and the door shut with a soft click.
"Well, isn't she just gorgeous?" she said, reaching out to gently stroke her pointer finger over a tiny balled fist.
The baby may not have been her grandchild by blood, but the fierce affection that welled up in her as she took her in in all her so small glory was the same as it had been with all of Jacky's children.
Alex didn't say anything, and Martha looked back up. He stared down at the girl, unblinking, and drew a shaky breath.
"Can you take her, Ma?"
Martha frowned, unsure if she had heard that right. "What?"
"Can you take her? Please? Just- take her away?" he said, voice trembling with obvious distress, and her heart sank.
"I- of course, sweetheart, if you're sure-"
"I'm sure," he cut in and attempted to lift the baby off himself with too weak arms. Martha stepped in and gathered her up with the easy confidence of a mother, settled her against her chest and supported her little head in the palm of one hand. "I want to be alone."
That- that was a reasonable request, of course. Not one she could personally comprehend, but still. Reasonable enough.
"And you're absolutely sure you don't want to spend a little time with her first?" she asked, because she had to be a hundred percent certain her son wanted to give these first precious minutes with a newborn away before she left.
Alex swallowed thickly, didn't look back up at her when he answered, "I want to be alone. I- I haven't been alone in months."
Oh. Well.
"Alright, then. I won't be far. Just call if you need anything, Alexander," she said and turned to leave, her tiny granddaughter in her arms.
A quiet sniffle sounded behind her, but she kept walking–he wanted to be alone, and Martha would respect that.
It was a lot harder to keep walking when she closed the door and the first muffled sob burst from her son's battered throat.
Martha sat, gently rocking the baby, for the better part of an hour before the little one became fussy.
She had passed the time by just looking at her–it reminded her of days and nights so many years ago, spent looking at her own babies, memorising their little faces and humming gentle melodies.
There was a tuft of soft dark hair already on her head, and from what she had seen from the baby's attempts to blink her eyes open, they were blue; that had to come from her father, then. Well. One of them. From John.
Martha sighed and made her way back to her son's room, knocked, and entered even though no answer had been given.
Alexander glanced over from where he sat in the middle of the bed. The odd emptiness hadn't left his eyes yet, and Martha's stomach knotted with worry.
The dull veil that covered his usually so expressive irises would lift over time, surely.
Perhaps he was just… nervous. Worried, unsure about how to raise a child, as many new parents were.
Or perhaps he was just tired. Giving birth was the most laborious thing he would ever have to go through, most likely, and the mental strain these past few months had to have put on him was something Martha could never hope to comprehend.
She gently bounced the whining baby in her arms and shot Alex a careful smile.
"I think she misses you," she said, crossing the rest of the room and sitting down on the edge of the mattress.
Alexander blinked and let out a long breath, but didn't answer otherwise.
A more substantial cry sounded, and he flinched; Martha moved to shush the baby without even thinking about it, but she could only do so much. The poor dear was probably hungry.
"You want me to take her," he said, flat. It wasn't a question, but Martha nodded anyway.
"She hasn't eaten yet," she said and shifted, handed Alexander his daughter back.
He held her like he didn't quite know what he was supposed to do with her, and Martha huffed a fond laugh.
"Here," she said, reaching out to rearrange his arms a little, making sure he supported her head. "That's better."
That was probably the first time Alexander really looked at her, took in her little face, scrunched up in displeasure, the colour of her hair, perhaps even that of her eyes when they were open for long enough.
"Do you know how to feed her, my sweet?" she inquired, voice soft, and Alex stiffened.
His eyes were downcast when he mumbled, "Do I have to?"
Martha opened her mouth but closed it a mere moment later, taken aback. "I don't see any way around it."
"Fine," he said quietly, still unable to meet her eye. "You- can you go? I'll figure it out."
"Alright," she said, and squeezed his shoulder in what she hoped to be an encouraging manner.
If he was reluctant to even feed her, well- they had a long road ahead of them, she thought, her heart encased in ice.
The dark circles under her son's eyes had yet to fade, but it had only been a little over a day, she reminded herself. He would recover in due time.
"So," she said that afternoon, desperate to keep her voice light as she attempted to feed her son a few more biscuits with his tea, as he had skipped lunch that day. "Have you thought of a name yet?"
Alexander continued stirring his spoon around his cup, the movement sluggish and fatigued, as though that small gesture was too much effort.
"What?" he said, and listless, tired eyes lifted from the swirling tea.
"A name? For your daughter?" she said and cocked her head in the direction of the nearby crib.
He still seemed so out of it–nothing like his usual persona, always so sharp and quick-witted, three steps ahead in every conversation.
Alex shrugged and let his spoon drop to the saucer with a loud clatter. Martha had already opened her mouth to reprimand him, a warning on her tongue to mind the baby, when she realised it wasn't really her place. It was his child, not hers.
"Eleanor," he said.
It seemed the baby had taken no notice of any disturbance, so she let it slide, a smile curling her lips.
"That's a nice name. Why did you pick it, if you don't mind me asking?"
"Was John's mother's name," he said and took a sip of his tea.
Hm.
If Martha were to be completely honest, she would have preferred he just name her Rachel, if he wanted to name her after anyone's mother; it almost felt like Alex was doing all of this more for that man than for himself.
Martha shook her head to force her thoughts back into order and brushed that absurd notion off. There was no power on this earth that could make her son do anything he didn't want to do, except for maybe the Lord himself.
Alexander took care of the baby–Martha had been a bit apprehensive that he wouldn't, in the beginning, when he had barely been able to look at her without tearing up, but he did.
It was just odd how he did it.
It was almost like he saw it as a chore, he would sigh and drag his feet when she started crying as though he was twelve again and Martha had just asked him to set the table.
Ellie was almost two weeks old now, and Alexander's attitude had yet to change for the better.
Martha had hoped it would last just the initial few days, but- she didn't think she had seen him hold her just because he felt like it even once, and at this rate, she feared Alex would never be able to bond with his own daughter.
Was she being too soft with him? Maybe if Martha were to stop treading on eggshells, if she stopped coddling him, he would make more of an effort with her.
But Alexander still looked so hurt all the time. So lonely and fragile, that dark shadow hanging over his soul a constant companion.
She would give it another week. If things hadn't changed then, she could still step in.
He had smiled at Ellie.
Alexander had smiled at her that morning when he'd bent over the crib to check on her; a real smile, all soft and even a bit happy, and he had chuckled a little at her gurgled noises when he'd lifted her up, had mumbled a gentle I know in response, even.
It would be fine.
Martha had worried over nothing, Alexander was coming around all on his own, and she was so incredibly proud of him.
The worst lay behind them, and the wind was turning–she could feel it.
