It’s May 25th, 1865. A year ago, you were married to your husband — Charles McKinnon, at the age of 19. Now Mrs. McKinnon, you help manage your farmhouse in a small Upper Canada town. Your rented farm faces the St. Lawrence River, a nice view on a breezy afternoon, such as this one.

Charles enjoyed the breezy weather. It was May, so it wasn’t too hot out yet. It was perfect weather for planting the crops for the season. You worked the gardens as Charles worked all of the acres around you. Your tenant farm was not perfect, not huge like his family’s farm. It needed some work, some years of toiling. But once you paid your due mortgage, you’d be fine.

Charles entered your small home just before dusk. The clock along the top of the hearth read 8:30. It was a later night for him — he had been out with the oxen, ploughing the soil and putting in seeds. He was tired after such a long day. He put his hat up on a nearby hat stand, running a hand through his hair. He looked over at you, voice still somewhat charming despite looking so exhausted. “Hey, dear,” he started, “is there still supper?”