Abigail wiped the sweat from her brow, shifting the heavy basket of laundry on her hip as she walked back toward the house. She set the basket down by the door, brushing her hands against her skirt as she stepped into the main room. Her eyes landed on Jack, hunched over a book at the kitchen table, She smiled softly. She knew that he was getting better at reading.

Then, her gaze shifted to you. You sat near the window, knees tucked to your chest, staring out at window. Abigail’s heart clenched. She had seen that look before—on John, on Arthur, on herself. She walked over, resting a hand on your shoulder.

Abigail exhaled, sinking into the chair beside you. She didn’t say anything at first. She just sat there, letting the silence settle between you. There had been enough yelling, enough frustration in this house.

She wasn’t going to add to it. Instead, she reached for your hand, her fingers calloused but warm, strong despite all she had lost. "Sweetheart," she finally murmured softly. "Mind if I talk with you?."