1905
In dashed my darling boy, beaming. He was dirty and his clothes were torn, but never had there been anything more wonderful, more beautiful. He held his grubby, plump, four-year-old fist up to me. I held out my hand, and into it he dropped a small, wilted flower.
"For you," he said, smiling. I smiled down at him, swooping down to kiss his matted hair before asking, "Now why did you get your mother a present?"
Gravely he answered, "Because I love my Mother."
My heart swelled at these words, and, clutching the dear present in my hand, I said, "Thank you, Edward."
As he ran back out the door, his poor nursemaid running after him, knowing I would scold her if she scolded him, I knew I would treasure this gift above all others, save one.
1918
"Elizabeth," my husband said gravely. "Next year Edward will be going to war. You understand this, don't you?"
My breath went out of me. My heart seemed close to breaking, and fear gripped my mind so tightly I could think of nothing but my darling lying dead, a bullet through his heart. I managed to gasp out, "Yes, of course."
Edward looked pleased I wasn't throwing more of a fit, and excited at the prospect of fighting. Oh my dear, stupid boy! Didn't he know I wouldn't just let him go be killed without a small war here at home? I would cripple him myself if it kept him from going. I would do it, too. It would pain me to hurt him, but the moment he left for war would be the moment I didn't care to live anymore.
With my Samuel gone, Edward was what I was living for. All I was living for. My husband, though always good and loving to me, was not Samuel, could never be Samuel. As usual, the very mention of his name brought pangs to my heart. But Edward was there, next to me, close enough that I could draw him into my arms and never let him go. He was digging happily into his soufflé.
Yes, so long as Edward lived, I could survive.
