Anne DeCuir, Chp. 4, Gen. 4, 1780

      ~Summer, 1780~
     Dear Diary,

     Aunt Abigail spends all day out in that garden.  Or, rather, when she's not in the garden, she cooks, with the produce that she grew with her bare hands, with her hope, with her sweat.  And without that food, I am not sure what we would do.  It seems to me that it is the only thing that has held us together.  Father is still distant.  He has given up on trying to get me to speak.  Father still sees through me, like I am a lonely ghost with no sense of purpose.   Sometimes I wonder if that is true.  It is no doubt difficult to find yourself when your own father has given up on you.

     Well, I do love Aunt Abigail.  She has been the mother I never had.  She has been so patient with me -- so understanding of me! But, besides that, I love to write.  I feel like it is my only communication to the outside world, my only way to show my true thoughts and opinions without speaking.  It is my only way out.  Sometimes I wish that I could run away from this house and never come back.  I could run, run, run, past this town, past America, far into--


     Father and Aunt Abigail are worried about the American Revolution.  It was Aunt Abigail's scream we heard at the dead of night on April 19, 1775.  She claimed she heard a very loud gunshot.  Later, we realized this was noted the 'shot heard around the world'.  Well, Aunt Abigail always seemed to have a sixth sense.  Not I nor Father had heard a thing until Aunt Abigail's scream. I think America is divided in half: the half that is excited about the revolution, and the half that is worried about it.  I will say that my family is most likely the latter...
    

     To this day, I still have no shoes.  My feet are callused and tough, and I have seen many splinters in my day.  Most seventeen-year-old girls have at least one pair of shoes...  Oh, Aunt Abigail wants something.  I will leave you now! 


     Until next time, 
          Anne DeCuir



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     "Anne, my dear?" Aunt Abigail asked.  Anne smiled in reply.  Yes, my sweet Aunt? Her eyes seemed to say.  Anne got up from the sofa.  It was probably another chore she needed to do.

     "Anne, I am cleaning some dishes and preparing for dinner.  Supper will be later tonight.  Would you like to pick some berries in the woods for some cobbler after supper?" Abigail smiled.
     Anne nodded, looking away.  Escape was within her grasp!
     "Hurry along now, before some birds eat up those berries.  You know what the newest saying is, 'the early bird catches the worm' I think."
     Anne wrinkled her eyebrows and glared at her Aunt, as if to say, I am not a bird, thank you very much! But Abigail did not seem to notice; she had already started tidying up the home.

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      Anne did not walk.  She ran.  She passed the berry bush; did not even glance its way.  Her feet kept going, she almost could not control them.  Those feet were raging wildfires, never stopping or slowing down.  

     Anne was convinced she was running in circles, passing by the same hills, trees, and landmarks again and again.  No matter how hard she tried to break that familiar loop, she always recognized the same nature she had seen earlier.  She ran up hills, and down them.  Curved around bends, and out the other ways.

     Anne was a fire person.  But even that hungry, raging inferno inside her, that growing ball of anger, began to die out when Anne saw something she had never seen before.  She slowed, and stopped.

     This was something new.  Anne knew these woods well, but she had never seen this part of it before.  Anne grimaced as she recalled yet another of Aunt Abigail's corny 'new' sayings: "Curiosity got the cat!"  Anne wanted to explode. 
     Turns out curiosity got Anne, too, as she slowly stepped forward to investigate the new territory.  A flash of worry struck her.  What if other peoples are around?  I could be injured, or worse!  But Anne felt somehow drawn to the odd new area.  All fear seemed to vanish after a few steps.

     As Anne reached the area, her stomach grumbled.  She did not even want to think about what time it was.  Anne was concerned about how to find food.  Aunt Abigail must be worried sick!  Anne considered trying to find her way home, but was it worth it?
     For one, Anne reasoned, she was lost.  She did not remember ever seeing this part of the woods in her life.  It would take hours -- maybe even days -- to find her way back home. 
    Secondly, Anne thought, is this not what she had wanted in the first place? To escape from the home she had been confined to? To escape the fear she had lived in for almost her whole life?  Out here in the wilderness, Anne would be free!  She was a baby bird that finally flew from the nest!  Bitterly, Anne realized Abigail could probably find a saying that included the words "baby bird" and "nest".  Anne shuddered and tried to forget about it.
     Thirdly, Anne would not miss anyone.  Well, she would miss Aunt Abigail.  Father probably would not even care if she were gone, right?  But Anne would not miss any friends.  Most of the other girls stayed away from her, whispering and pointing, calling her mean names and laughing at her because she was silent.  Others mistook her for being rude by not talking and always sent her glares when they met eyes.
      No.  She did not want to return to that house.  To Father's weary face.  To Abigail's worried face.  To have them ask useless questions that they knew she would never answer.
     Snap!
     Startled out of her reverie, Anne looked up, heart pounding.  And nearly leaped out of her skin.

     On the top of a small hill, stood a young woman, donned in a milk-white dress, looking off into the distance, probably deep into thought.
     Anne realized with a start who it was.  Or at least, she thought she knew.  How could it be possible?  Was it really her?  Great-Grandmother?  Elizabeth Laurier-Beaumont?

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Anne DeCuir

*The Antique Legacy* 

Anne DeCuir, Chp. 3, Gen. 4, 1770

~April, 1770~
Dear Diary:

       It has been four years now.  Four years of scilents silence.  I did not even cry out when I stubbed my toe on the last step to the privy, or that time when I got a sharp splinter on my heal heel!  Though I can tell Father is not at all happy with my silence, it is a choice I made, and it is for the better.  I do not want to dissapoint disappoint with my words that only seemed to make Father unhappy.  I keep telling myself that if he seems unhappy now, he would be even more upset if I was were speaking.  It's just something I must remember.

     Aunt Abigail has been tootoring tutoring me with English and French.  I can tell she thinks it's extremely important for me to be educated, especially if I am 'mute' as Father and she call it.  But, we work on listening skills, and, though I do not speak, I silently form the letters of the alphabet with my mouth.  I understand people when they talk to me.  It's just me who does not respond.  I know Abigail wants me to talk again, but for now, she insists that I write in this diary.

     Aunt Abigail and Father have been holding their breth breathe breath about the tea tax, because the Townshend Ax Acts have taken many taxs  taxes away but the tea tax is still in affect effect.  And Aunt Abigail do loves her tea!  Father is mad at her because she still byes bys buys the tea dispit despite the taxes on it, and we are low on money.  We are so low that I do not have a pair of shoes.   That's how I got the splinter, and there's another brown line on my foot and I'm really hopeing hoping it's not a second splinter...

     I read in the newspaper that something called the 'Boston Massaker  Massacre' happened on March 5 of this year.  A mob of people gathered and were angry with the British, and some British soldiers injured a handful of peopel people!  Father and Aunt Abigail are very upset over this matter.  I am scared to ask them about it, and I have a feeling they do not know that I know...

     Until next time,
          Anne DeCuir

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     Abigail felt nearly hopeless.  Money was scarce, as ever since she had let Melatiah and Anne live with her, food seemed to become more and more expensive.  Not that Abigail wanted her cousin to leave.  In fact, she had grown quite close to Anne, instinctively becoming the mother Anne never had; however, Abigail was a tad annoyed that Melatiah had told her that their stay would be temporary when it was evidently not, and the fact that Melatiah was not helping with the finances.
     
     Abigail's stomach growled, and she swallowed hard.  The cellar did not hold much more food.  All that was left was a dozen tomatoes, four green peppers, a few apples, and a small bag of wheat.  Worried, Abigail willed her upset stomach to calm down.  She would save any food she had left for little Anne, but the gnawing pain was hard to ignore.


     Determined to make a difference, an idea struck her.


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     She gazed at the brownish seed, a seed of hope.  Abigail prayed that this seed would grow an apple tree many feet taller than herself, tall enough to grow dozens and dozens of apples; apple pie, apple cobbler, applesauce, apple mush, apple-you-name-it.  Enough apples to keep the family full.

     Abigail dropped the seed into the ground and covered it up with a mound of dirt.  She patted it with a encouraging hand.

     Abigail spent all morning planting a small garden in the midday heat.  Her forehead was beaded with sweat, but Abigail was a woman on a mission to save her family from starvation.  And Melatiah would help her or else he would need to find a new home.  Abigail would offer to take care of Anne, but Melatiah needed to earn his keep.

     When she had finished planting a patch of dirt full of apple seeds, tomato seeds, lettuce seeds, and pepper seeds, Abigail stood up and wiped her dirt covered hands on her apron.  
     "If only seeds would grow into plants overnight!"  Abigail mused.

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     It was later that day that Abigail gathered the courage to confront her cousin.
     "Dear Melatiah, I urge you to escape your reverie and come to your senses!  We are losing money quickly and I am fearing starvation if we cannot earn some soon.  You have not been entirely truthful to me, and you need to help me pay off the expenses.  This is my house, after all.  I hope you still know that I am temporarily providing you a place to live.  The problem is that you have not been looking for a new house."

     "Well, I feel we have been living comfortably.  Whatever do you mean, Abigail?" 
     Abigail was angered.  "Comfortably? COMFORTABLY? I have NOT been living comfortably!  Neither has Anne!  Your daughter has no shoes, and you call that living comfortably?  I have been paying off the expenses of food for you and Anne.  How come you have not helped me?  You lied to me, said you would find a new place to take yourself and Anne! Not that I do not enjoy your company, but..."

     "How dare you!" Melatiah yelled.  "Are you saying we cannot live here anymore? Are you asking us to leave?"
     Abigail sneered.  "No.  I am saying you must help me.  And, how dare YOU?  I am a single woman without a job.  I have no higher level status in society, and you expect me to pay for everything!  Excuse me, but I don't care that I am a helpless woman in our society -- I don't care that I am not supposed to yell at you or talk back at you!" Her voice softened.  "I just want to provide for Anne a childhood that is as normal as possible, given the conditions.  Sorry, but, isn't that what you, as the father, are supposed to do?"

     "Yes, Abigail, you are correct in each respect.  I have been a terrible father and a terrible gentleman.  I keep telling myself that I need a little more time to sort things out, and that time keeps piling up.  And I never feel any better.  I know we, as cousins, have not always gotten along well, but I do apologize for everything I have not done to support you and my daughter.  I guess I just never expected my life to turn out the way it has."

     "And I can see that my daughter hates me, and that I have failed my late wife's wishes.  And now I have failed you."
     
     Abigail's anger disappeared.  "Things happen for a reason, my cousin.  You haven't failed your daughter yet.  And I always thought I would move far, far away from this house.  I was a very unhappy person, long ago.  But I am still here, and I am happy.  Part of that happiness is because of Anne.  I love her dearly, and I cannot imagine my life without her.  But it hurts me so much to see us struggling to give her what she deserves because of the lack of money.  I started a garden, earlier today.  I would appreciate it if you would help me garden it.  It could turn into a small farm if we work hard.  We could sell our produce.  And maybe your daughter would smile a little brighter and a little more often."

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Dear Diary:

     Aunt Abigail and Father have been working all week on a new garden.  I love to sit in the sun and watch them work.  Sometimes, if they let me, I like to run to the woods and gather fresh berries from a helthy  healthy bush.  Aunt Abigail makes jam and pie with the berries, or sometimes we eat them as a midday snack.


     Last night, Father said goodnight to me for the first time in a while.  He told me to practice smiling.  He told me I have a face full of sunshine when I smile.

     And so I do smile.  I pretend like my smile is the sun in the dark room around me.  And for the first time, I'm not afraid of the shadows in my room.  I smile myself to sleep because if my smile is like the sun, it scares off the shadows in my room. 

 
     I didn't even have a nightmare!  I dreamed of eating those tasty berries in the afternoon sun with Father and Aunt Abigail.

     Until next time,
          Anne DeCuir

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*The Antique Legacy*

Anne DeCuir

Anne DeCuir, Chp. 2, Gen. 4, 1766

     It had only been a few days since Melatiah and Anne had lived at the lemon-drop house.  Only a few days since Abigail Beaumont had cooked for them and looked after Anne.  Abigail had often asked of life in Charleston, and Melatiah had described the unruly and inpatient colonists with whom he lived near.  The Stamp Act had brought great grief among the colonists, requiring taxes on stamps and other small goods to be payed to England from citizens in the colonies.  Melatiah could tell that something big was going to happen soon; the colonists began to come together in small meetings and express their anger with each other about the taxes.








     Once, Melatiah had even attended such a meeting.  He was swallowed up in the colonists' rage; yelling, crowding, and even schemes.  It was all one reason why Melatiah wanted to escape Charleston.  Like the slaves who were treated like dirt, Melatiah had desired to escape to the North once again.
  
     Abigail displayed quite an interest in the happenings.  Her catlike eyes widened with wonder, fear, and interest.  On the first night, she had let Melatiah sleep in the master bedroom, but he had insisted after that night that she have it back; however, Melatiah was drawn to the very room.


     One early morning, when Abigail was still sleeping, Melatiah peered in.  Tiptoeing quietly, he gazed at the dresser and sighed.

     The master bedroom was not as he had remembered it so long ago.  Where there had once been an infant's crib, there was now a wooden carved dresser, filled with useless trinkets (at least to a man).  Sweet fragrances, bottles filled with disgusting liquid, day old tea, an oil lamp, an old candle.  Melatiah knew that Aphrodisia had used a fragrance.  His throat tightened.

     Melatiah felt out of place.  He had no need for these feminine sentiments; these useless bottles of perfume, the bottles that beckoned him closer only to leave a stench in his nose that made him sick.  Tea that left a dull taste in his mouth.  Candles that would not light a room.  He needed something else.

     He needed possibility; not doubt.  He needed a burst of color; not a thin line of blandness.  Though these thoughts were like seeds that could not find a patch of rich ground in his mind, he vaguely realized they were there.  Aphrodisia had shown him possibility.  Without her he was living in a stenciled-in world; a world he was struggling to out.  

     He needed a world where there was no limit...

     Dear cousin stirred beneath the covers.  She inhaled deeply and pushed the blankets away from her body, sitting up in bed.

     "Uh, Melatiah?"  Abigail was surprised.  "Cousin, what are you doing in here?"
     Melatiah furrowed his brow.  "I'm sorry, Abigail.  I'm really not sure why I entered.  I just... I just... I just needed to think."
     "Oh."  The look on her face said she did not comprehend.  "Well, in that case, good luck thinking.  I'll leave you to your thoughts."  Abigail started to leave the room.
     "Wait.  You trust me in your room alone?"
     "Should I not?"
     The question baffled him so much that he was left speechless for a moment.
     "Melatiah, I am not clueless.  I have no valuables here.  Nothing you would want."  With that, she left the room, leaving her cousin to his muddled thoughts.


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     "Good afternoon, dear," Abigail said later that day. 

     For the first time in the days that Anne had arrived in Detroit, she smiled.  But she did not speak.  

     Melatiah was concerned.  Anne had not spoken a word since they had arrived.  She had not even smiled (until now), and she rarely looked at her father in the eyes.  Abigail wanted to help the child.  Comfort her.  Coax her into talking again.  Melatiah would start to get upset if Anne did not continue talking again.

     "Anne, my sweet, would you like a ginger cookie for dessert after dinner?" Abigail offered hopefully.
     Smiling, Anne nodded.  She even laughed. 
     Abigail would not give up.  She had to get Anne to talk again.  Why was Anne staying silent?

    "Well, that's good that you want one, but you must ask for it politely.  Can you ask for it?"
     Anne stopped smiling.  She pursed her tiny lips and looked off into the distance.  It seemed to Abigail that Anne was trying to decide something.

     Anne looked back at Abigail and stared at her aunt doubtfully.

     "If you ask nicely, I'll even give you a spoonful of molasses!"  Abigail pleaded, clasping her hands together with hope.

     Anne pouted.  But slowly, the pout dissipated.  Anne opened her mouth slowly, and Abigail could see her forming the words silently.  The child began to relax and Abigail swore she could see a hint of a smile on the young girl's face.  Anne was about to speak when Melatiah charged down the steps.  
     "Anne talking yet?" He asked eagerly.

      Anne was startled.  Abigail watched her niece's face tighten with fear; the blueberry eyes filled with tears as Melatiah drew closer.  Anne started to cry and whimper.  Abigail stood up, turned on an oil lamp, as it was getting dark, and turned to her cousin.

     "What are you doing, Abigail?  I thought you were trying to get her to talk?  I come down here and my daughter's in tears!"  Melatiah yelled.
     "Cousin, I was.  She almost spoke to me, but then you came down here and she started crying."

     Melatiah was enraged.  "What's that supposed to mean?"
     "You tell me.  Why does your daughter shut down to everyone when you come in the room?"  Abigail shot back.  "Why is fear marked all over her face when she sees you?"

     "I do not know, Abigail.  You are spending so much time with her, maybe you're the one who is influencing her about untruthful things!"
     "Excuse me?  I'm spending time with her because you aren't!  Instead, you walk around in MY room while I'm SLEEPING, and you claim to be THINKING!  Why aren't you with your  daughter?  Melatiah, she's scared.  She's terrified.  I suggest that you do something.  Something that does not involve yelling!"  Abigail stalked away.

     Anne sat in a damp puddle of urine, shaking.  Melatiah did not want to admit it, but much of what Abigail had said was true.  He had not been there for Anne.  He was scaring her.  Maybe he was the cause of her silence.

     As he stepped up to pick up his daughter, he saw pieces of Aphrodisia in her face and features.

      "Anne, it's okay.  I'm sorry.  Can you speak to me?"  Melatiah whispered.
     Anne could not.  She wanted to say something.  She wanted to make him happy.  But she could not bring herself to bring words out of her mouth.  She was still scared of him.  She did not trust him.  She decided right then that she would never speak to anyone again.

     Anne had almost broken the silence that gripped her in fear.  She almost spoke to Abigail.  But now, Anne promised herself to stay silent forever, no matter how much her father loved her.  Silence seemed safe to Anne.  Noise was dangerous.


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*The Antique Legacy*

Anne DeCuir

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Anne DeCuir, Gen. 4, Chp. 1, 1766

     The bumpy ride seemed never-ending, especially to a child.  A child who desperately needed to relieve her uncomfortably full bladder.  A child who was afraid to ask if the carriage could stop, just for a minute.  She tried to ignore the urge to wet herself, though it was getting especially difficult.  Her big blue eyes filled with worry and she pouted, staring at her father.

     Her father took no notice, did not even hear his three-year-old daughter whimpering, did not even see the pool of urine surrounding her.  He did not even see the wet stains on the child's dress.  He had too many other things on his mind.

    

     The horses trotted ahead, and the child's heart was gripped with the fear of a three-year-old who was afraid to tell her father something.  The father sighed, and the child held her breath.  Nothing.

     "Papa?" The child asked, in a high-pitched chord.  The father did not stir.

     "Papa? I wet myself."  She could see her father's jaws clench together tightly.

     "Anne, what did I say about this last time? TELL me when you need to go!  I will stop the carriage if you tell me.  Now you're going to have to sit in that wet dress until we arrive." Melatiah scolded, not even trying to hid the anger from his voice.
     Anne's eyes filled with silent tears.  She did not believe her father.  He would have gotten angry if she had told him she needed to go.  He did that one time, and Anne had decided never to say it again.  Now, Anne decided to remain silent for the rest of the day.  Maybe even for a few days.

     They were getting near, and Anne was excited to get out of the carriage.  The trip had taken two months and Anne did not dare ask her father how close they were.  He might become angry again.
     Melatiah was anxious to arrive too.  He was beginning to regret not remarrying -- but not because he wanted another lover.  Only because he did not know how to raise his young daughter.  He had a feeling that he was doing a terrible job, but every time he laid his eyes upon his daughter's face, it hurt.  Anne had Aphrodisia's nose.  He felt that pain in his heart every time he saw that nose.  It was a terrible, terrible thing to feel, and what was worse was that Anne would never be able to understand it, especially not at such a young age.  Melatiah often tried to avoid looking at his daughter.  Tried to avoid talking to her, playing with her.  

     He knew that he needed to push past these emotions -- for the sake of his daughter, but at the moment, he was just not strong enough.

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     At the moment of the arrival, Melatiah nearly leaped out of the carriage.  Anne's worry-filled blueberry eyes watched her father as he grabbed their belongings out of the carriage.  Eyes filling with tears, the child looked at the ground, which was a long way down for a tiny girl. 
     Melatiah was about to walk up the path of the house without her, but when he heard her whimpering, he turned around.  Picking her up in his arms, Melatiah tried to avoid touching the damp dress.
     Once they were at the front door, the father dropped the suitcases of belongings and tried to open the door with one hand, Anne being held in the other.
     The door would not budge.
     "Hold on, Anne.  We've got to break it down."  He kicked it with a bang.  No success.  A second kick and the door gave way to the house and a screaming woman inside.

     Screaming and shrieking, the woman asked, "What in the name of our earth are you doing?  Is it money you are after?"

     Melatiah, shocked, gasped.  "No!  Of course not!  I am moving in here.  This house used to be my mother's, and before her, it was my grandmother's.  What are you doing here?  Are you readying it for me?  Why was the door locked?"
     The woman glared with such rage that Melatiah was worried that she would scream again.  "I LIVE HERE!  How dare you?  This is my home!  My grandmother lived here, then my mother did.  And now I do.  Whoever you are--"  The woman stopped.  "You -- you said your grandmother lived here?  And your mother?  Who -- who are you?"
     "My name is Melatiah DeCuir.  I'm Emilie DeCuir's son.  Who are you?"
     The woman looked at him with awe.  "I'm Abigail Beaumont... My mother was Hettie Beaumont.  You are my cousin."
     The two cousins stood there staring at each other in silence.  
     "Well, uh," Melatiah faltered, "I had no knowledge that you lived here.  We've come from Charles Town, South Carolina... Now we've got no place to stay."

     Anne squirmed slightly, and Melatiah winced when he felt the wet portion of the dress.
     Abigail looked at her feet.  "Well, it's just me living here; feel free to stay for awhile.  At least until you can find a new home..."
     Gratefully, Melatiah nodded, trying to hide his eagerness.  "That would be splendid.  How can I ever thank you?"  
     Abigail gave her cousin a tiny smile.  "There's no need.  Who's this?" She said, smiling at Anne.
     Anne stared at Abigail, not saying a word.  The silence stretched on.
     "Uh, this is my daughter, Anne.  I apologize for her rudeness...  Someone had a little accident in the carriage."  Melatiah grimaced.
     Abigail laughed.  "Oh, not to worry, Anne!  I would be more than happy to give your dress a nice cleaning!"


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     Anne felt an immediate liking to Abigail.  Abigail seemed like someone who could fix every single problem.  Abigail had gotten rid of the stinky, wet dress and had turned it into a fresh dry dress.  Anne couldn't be more thankful.


     Night had come.  Shadows filled every corner of the house.  Anne felt the shadows sneaking up around her and felt frozen with fear.  Where was the light to scare the shadows away?  The house was cold and unfamiliar in the dark.  Anne wanted to cry.
     She wanted to cry for Papa, to yell out.  But she could not.  She could not say a word.  Her voice was frozen, as cold as an icicle.  Sniffling, the three-year-old pushed back the bedspread and placed a single foot on the cold wood floor.

     She slid to the floor, biting each teeny fingernail, not trusting what she could not see in the dark.

     The child sat in the dark, wanting to move, but being unable to.  Wanting to speak, but being left speechless.  Needing Papa -- being desperate for Papa, but being afraid of him at the same time.  Afraid to see his angry face.  Afraid to be the cause of his anger.  Afraid to be yelled at.  Afraid to be unloved.
     Anne wanted her father to laugh and smile and hug her tightly.  She wanted her father to sing her to sleep.  She wanted her father to tuck her in and tell her not to be afraid of the dark.  She wanted her father to be happy.
     But there in the dark, Anne felt alone.  A small child sitting on the floor.  A small, lonely child, just wanting her Papa.  Or just wanting someone to care.

     Like magic, Anne found a surge of strength to move.  She stood up and wobbled over to the room her father was sleeping in.  Anne could not open the door.  It was closed and Anne was too small and the door was too tall and it was too hard and Anne was not strong enough.  Anne returned to the spot she had started from and plopped down to the ground.

    
     Bursting into tears, the child screamed and wailed, as loud as she possible could.  No one heard her.  She cried herself to sleep.


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     Abigail awoke at dawn.  She entered Anne's room and was surprised to find the child on the floor.
     "Anne, dear?" 

     But the child did not stir.  The child looked peaceful, but Abigail did not believe this appearance. 
     "What are you doing out of bed?  It's cold on the floor," Abigail whispered, not intending Anne to hear.  Abigail walked over to the girl and looked down upon her.

     As if out of nowhere, Melatiah came up behind her.
     "I'm so sorry about Anne.  I'm not sure what has come over her."
     "Oh, don't apologize for her.  She is fine.  I've always wanted a child but never did meet anyone I liked well enough."

     "You're very lucky to have such a beautiful young girl, Melatiah.  You don't know how lucky you are."
     Melatiah frowned.  "I'm not lucky.  Her mother died the day she was born.  Every time I look at my daughter I wince.  Every time she touches my arm or tries to hug me, I nearly pull back.  She has many features of my wife, and I cannot bear it."
     "That is very sad, cousin.  I am grateful for whatever I receive.  I hope you can still give your child love.  She deserves to be loved.  If you will not do it, I will."
     Yet another silence separated the three.

     "Uh, cousin," asked Abigail, embarrassed, "would you mind fixing the lock on the door?  You see, when you, uh, entered, it broke completely, and I do not know a thing about locks."

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*The Antique Legacy*

Anne DeCuir