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ten-year-old body outgrowing his clothes faster than she could order them from the Sears, Roebuck Catalog , tromped in from school, forcing her mind off Luke Jacobs and his intentions.
    Philip, his hazel eyes shining with mischief, followed on his brother’s heels. He grabbed Ben and tickled his belly. “We’re going to pick flowers, Ben. Wanna help?”
    “Yes!”
    That morning she and the boys had planned their monthly trek to the cemetery. “Before you do, how about some cookies and milk?” All three boys slid onto the kitchenchairs. “Wash your hands first.” They scrambled down, racing toward the sink, jostling for first in line, reminding Mary of playful puppies. If only she had their energy.
    Back at the table, they gobbled her molasses cookies and slugged down the milk.
    Swiping the back of his hand over his mouth, Michael removed his milk mustache. “I recited the preamble to the Declaration of Independence,” he said. “I got it the first time.”
    Mary smiled at her older son. “I’m proud of you. All that practicing helped.”
    “I cleaned the erasers,” Philip said, then reported the highlights of his school day, none of which had anything to do with his lessons. Philip would rather play than study.
    Ben listened, wide-eyed, hanging on to every word. “I wanna go to school.”
    Philip drained his glass. “You aren’t old enough.”
    Ben puffed out his chest. “I’m four!”
    “You have to be six. That’s two more years.”
    The little boy’s face fell.
    Always the peacemaker, Philip jumped from his chair and put a hand on Ben’s shoulder. “But you get to play with the preacher’s kittens while we’re in school. That’s lots more fun.”
    All smiles now, Ben finished the last bite of his cookie while Michael, always aware of what needed to be done, cleared the glasses from the table.
    Mary dug under the sink, retrieved two canning jars and filled them with water. “Michael, get the shears. Cut the flowers for Ben and Philip.”
    She set the containers on the back porch. The boys hurried past on the way to her garden. Within minutes, they ambled back clutching asters in their now grubby hands, and stuck the stems into the jars.
    The boys enjoyed tending their father’s and grandmother’s plots. Mary encouraged their efforts, hoping the activity would help them remember Susannah and Sam. Not that she wanted her boys to dwell on the past. She’d tried to show them that even after losing a loved one, life went on. Doubt nagged at her, tightening the muscles in her neck. Had she always lived that example?
    They set off with Ben in the wagon, two flower-filled fruit jars wrapped in a burlap bag hugged to his chest. The water sloshed over the top, dampening Ben’s shirt. His giggle told her he didn’t mind.
    When they reached Crownland Cemetery, Michael and Philip each carried a jar with Ben tagging along behind. They put their offerings on the graves. Then they gathered the dried, crackling leaves blown against the headstones, their solemn faces eager to help, and stuffed them into the burlap sack to dump on the compost pile at home.
    Finished with the task, Michael and Ben leaned against the trunk of a tree, studying the clouds overhead. Philip ambled over to where Mary knelt pulling the tall grass away from her mother’s headstone, his mouth drooping.
    “What’s wrong, sweetheart?”
    “Could you…” He studied his hands. “Find us a new dad?”
    Mary’s heart plunged. She enfolded her son in her arms. “I know you miss your dad, but we’ll be fine, Philip. Just fine.”
    He sighed, then pulled away and plodded to his brothers. His words lingered in Mary’s mind, gnawing at her peace. Philip wanted a dad, but she knew a bad choice was far worse than living alone.
    Eleven years ago on this very day in October she’d married Sam. The raven-haired stranger who’d come into her father’s office one sultry afternoon in August, histhumb split open from an accident at a factory