Dear Lillian,
I can't tell you how happy I am. I do hope this letter reaches you in the best of health and happiness. I wonder how you are doing out west; I hear it is quite sunny and windy in Kansas.
On March 23, at three in the morning, I gave birth to a baby boy named Jack Kirean Kelly. He's a beautiful baby. We named him Jack for my father. You remember his nickname was Steamboat Jack. I miss going on the boat with him. More than that, I miss him in general. I felt so terrible, lost, and alone when his ship exploded, taking him down with it. They never found the body; Mother felt awful that she had nothing to bury.
Well, I shouldn't trouble you with those thoughts. It's been many years, but sometimes I feel I never filled that gap. But somehow, I think naming my son after Father heals the wound a little.
Jack is a wonderful baby. He has my eyes, Father's eyes. Blue, like the sky. His hair's like mine too. He has a round face, but I think it'll look more like Gerald's. Speaking of Gerald, he's overjoyed to have a boy. Not that we don't love our daughters, of course.
Anne has started going to school. She made a great fuss when we originally told her she had to go with Belinda, but now she enjoys it. She has made a new friend named Eliza Mary. Anne talks about how funny this girl is, but I've never met her. I'm a bit worried that this Eliza Mary is distracting Anne from her schoolwork, but I cannot fret like this.
Belinda apparently didn't know how babies are born before Jack. Gerald had to tell her when she sneaked into our kitchen about an hour before Jack's birth. I really ought to have the girls more informed; otherwise they might make a mistake without knowing and then where would they be?
Gerald is not pleased with his work. The wages have been cut by a penny or two per hour again, but he doesn't dare stand up to the boss. If he does, he might be fired. I don't intend on being thrown out of our apartment. We've lived here for twelve years, right after we got married, and I intend to live my life here unless something better comes by. Which it won't, at least not for a Missouri river rat and her Irish husband.
I don't relish the feeling of New York particularly. I see why you wanted to leave so badly. But I don't believe it's right to run away, not after all the hard work we've put into surviving. I may have to go back to washing rich ladies' clothing to make up for Gerald's cut wages, but Belinda can keep house. I am very proud of my oldest daughter.
Margaret lost her first tooth. I so wanted to give her a penny, but we cannot afford to. I never felt so awful. Gerald was kind enough to slip two candies underneath her pillow, but I'd rather see her face light up with a penny. Then again, maybe she likes pennies and money too much. I don't know.
Lillian, I do miss you so. Write to me soon. And do visit sometime, if it is possible. I would love to play cards with you like we did as girls.
Your loving sister,
Matilda Anna Kelly