house, but to me it’s perfect. It allows me to work on my projects and keep Josephina within a close proximity, so I can always see her. It might be small, but it was better than nothing.
I walk towards my work area, with Joseph closely following behind, as I lead him to a couch that is near the wall. It’s usually where Josephina colors or does her activities during the day while I work. He takes a seat next to me and it instantly brings back the memory of the last night I’d seen him. I force myself to push it aside.
“So what is it you do?” he asks, still curiously looking around my studio.
There are several tables in the middle of the room, with items scattered across them. A large table is off to the side with several burners holding large pots and ladles. Against another wall, shelves are lined from top to bottom; it’s where I store items. There are large tubs of containers taking up half of the other walls. It’s what I store the finished soaps in, so the scents don’t mix. .
“I make soaps. I was taught how to make them when I first moved here to Wisconsin.”
“You said earlier you were sent away. Is this where you came?”
“When my parents found out I was pregnant, they had already made the decision to send me away,” I tell him, the somberness taking over my response.
He still looks puzzled by my response, so I explain. “I was sent to live here in Wisconsin with my aunt. She lives in an Amish community right outside of Madison. In the beginning it was very difficult for me, because I was an outsider who wasn’t raised there and I was pregnant. They didn’t approve of me at first. I had to prove I would be a hard worker and that I wouldn’t be an inconvenience to them. Eventually they allowed me to stay, knowing it would only be temporarily. I left a little after Josephina turned one, when I’d finally saved up enough money to move here to the capital with her.”
“You said you learned how to make your soaps from a lady?”
“Yeah, she lived on the farm and needed help when I first arrived. She showed me how to make them when I was pregnant with Josephina. I found I was able to make them quickly and I enjoyed doing it. I started selling them to the locals to help with the cost of living. Since it was something I discovered I liked doing, I continued with it. It’s not making me rich, but it provides enough for me to put a roof over my head and food on the table for both of us,” I say to him as I wring my hands on my lap.
Although I know he’s absorbed every word, he still looks perplexed. “I still don’t understand why your parents sent you away? Why would they, knowing you were carrying my baby? Why didn’t they speak with my parents instead of sending you away?” he questions.
Feeling ashamed I never told anyone , I look down at my wringed hands as I convey, “I never told anyone who the father was. Not even my parents. I knew my parents didn’t really like your parents, so I didn’t think it would help the situation. They wanted me out of the house, regardless. Plus, I really doubt your parents would’ve believed me anyways, Joseph,” I finish saying with a whisper.
Joseph’s parents never got along with mine. Our parents were never the typical neighbors you see on TV where everyone gets along. No, my parents were too religious, and Joseph’s parents were far from it, making them clash.
Sitting there, still silent, allowing him to absorb the information, I patiently wait for him to say something.
“Do you have pictures of her from when she was little?” he asks, his voice sounding raspy. His emotions are tearing at my heart. All this time I didn’t think he cared.
Exhaling deeply, I stand up, heading in the direction of the sleeping area. I go to the dresser that holds our clothes and pull open a drawer in the middle. It’s in the same spot it’s been for the last couple of years. I reach for the envelope containing the photo. I rarely take it out
I walk towards my work area, with Joseph closely following behind, as I lead him to a couch that is near the wall. It’s usually where Josephina colors or does her activities during the day while I work. He takes a seat next to me and it instantly brings back the memory of the last night I’d seen him. I force myself to push it aside.
“So what is it you do?” he asks, still curiously looking around my studio.
There are several tables in the middle of the room, with items scattered across them. A large table is off to the side with several burners holding large pots and ladles. Against another wall, shelves are lined from top to bottom; it’s where I store items. There are large tubs of containers taking up half of the other walls. It’s what I store the finished soaps in, so the scents don’t mix. .
“I make soaps. I was taught how to make them when I first moved here to Wisconsin.”
“You said earlier you were sent away. Is this where you came?”
“When my parents found out I was pregnant, they had already made the decision to send me away,” I tell him, the somberness taking over my response.
He still looks puzzled by my response, so I explain. “I was sent to live here in Wisconsin with my aunt. She lives in an Amish community right outside of Madison. In the beginning it was very difficult for me, because I was an outsider who wasn’t raised there and I was pregnant. They didn’t approve of me at first. I had to prove I would be a hard worker and that I wouldn’t be an inconvenience to them. Eventually they allowed me to stay, knowing it would only be temporarily. I left a little after Josephina turned one, when I’d finally saved up enough money to move here to the capital with her.”
“You said you learned how to make your soaps from a lady?”
“Yeah, she lived on the farm and needed help when I first arrived. She showed me how to make them when I was pregnant with Josephina. I found I was able to make them quickly and I enjoyed doing it. I started selling them to the locals to help with the cost of living. Since it was something I discovered I liked doing, I continued with it. It’s not making me rich, but it provides enough for me to put a roof over my head and food on the table for both of us,” I say to him as I wring my hands on my lap.
Although I know he’s absorbed every word, he still looks perplexed. “I still don’t understand why your parents sent you away? Why would they, knowing you were carrying my baby? Why didn’t they speak with my parents instead of sending you away?” he questions.
Feeling ashamed I never told anyone , I look down at my wringed hands as I convey, “I never told anyone who the father was. Not even my parents. I knew my parents didn’t really like your parents, so I didn’t think it would help the situation. They wanted me out of the house, regardless. Plus, I really doubt your parents would’ve believed me anyways, Joseph,” I finish saying with a whisper.
Joseph’s parents never got along with mine. Our parents were never the typical neighbors you see on TV where everyone gets along. No, my parents were too religious, and Joseph’s parents were far from it, making them clash.
Sitting there, still silent, allowing him to absorb the information, I patiently wait for him to say something.
“Do you have pictures of her from when she was little?” he asks, his voice sounding raspy. His emotions are tearing at my heart. All this time I didn’t think he cared.
Exhaling deeply, I stand up, heading in the direction of the sleeping area. I go to the dresser that holds our clothes and pull open a drawer in the middle. It’s in the same spot it’s been for the last couple of years. I reach for the envelope containing the photo. I rarely take it out
Similar Books
The Elopement
Megan Chance
The Cuckoo's Calling
Robert Galbraith
Fair Maiden
Cheri Schmidt
Left on Paradise
Kirk Adams
The Poisoner's Handbook
Deborah Blum
Rio Loco
Robert J. Conley
The Precipice
Penny Goetjen
Fishbone's Song
Gary Paulsen