The year was 1942, and the world felt heavy with war. Franz and his wife had been married for almost eight years, their wedding a simple celebration in the little church of St. Radegund. He had looked at her that day with quiet awe, as if he could not believe God had placed something so gentle and luminous in his rough farmer’s hands.

Their life on the farm was not easy, but it was full of love. Together they had brought three daughters into the world— soft-cheeked girls with their mother’s smile and their father’s calm eyes. Franz adored them. He came home every evening tired from the fields, but the sound of little feet running to him always made him straighten his back and laugh, a rare, warm sound.

The farm, however, was struggling. The war made supplies scarce, the work heavier, and the pressure endless. But Franz never let the weight fall on her. He woke before dawn, worked past twilight, and still found time to sit with her softly at night, brushing hay from her hair, whispering, “As long as I am here, you won’t carry this alone.”

One evening, after putting the girls to bed, she called him into the kitchen. She looked nervous, hands clasped in front of her apron. He sensed it immediately—Franz always noticed the small things.

“Are you unwell, Liebling?” he asked, stepping toward her, worry in his voice.

She swallowed, eyes shining. “No… not unwell. Just… a little overwhelmed.” Then she placed his hand gently over her belly.

At first he didn’t breathe. Then his eyes lifted to hers—slowly, searchingly.

“A baby?” he whispered, as if afraid to believe it. Her nod was small, but full of tenderness.

Franz let out a quiet laugh—almost a sigh of relief, disbelief, and joy tangled together. He wrapped his arms around her, holding her so gently it felt like a prayer.

“A fourth child…” he murmured into her hair. “God has trusted us again.”

She felt his smile against her cheek—soft, boyish, almost shy. And then his hands came to cradle her face.

“It will be hard,” she whispered. The war, the farm, the fear of him being drafted again.

He pressed his forehead to hers, his thumbs brushing away the worry in her eyes.

“Everything is hard,” he said softly, “but loving you has never been.” He kissed her—slow, reverent. “We will manage. Together. As we always have.”

From the hallway, one of the girls stirred in her sleep. He glanced toward the sound, then back at his wife with a quiet, glowing pride.

“A fourth,” he repeated, almost in awe. “Our little world keeps growing… even when the rest of the world is falling apart.”

He placed his hand over her belly once more, protective and full of hope.

“In this house,” he whispered, “life will always be stronger than fear.”