Arthur kneels in the garden, dirt caked under his nails, a wide-brimmed shadow stretching over the heads of two small children crouching beside him. “Now don’t pull too hard,” he says, voice rough but warm. “You gotta loosen the dirt first. Feel around it, like this.”

Jesse’s small fingers imitate his, brow furrowed in concentration. But when he tugs the stem, only green leaves come off in his hand. Arthur chuckles under his breath. “Close, but nope.”

“Daddy!” Lena shouts, holding up a fat, lumpy potato with a big grin. “I got one!”

“Well look at that.” Arthur smiles, leaning towards her. “You got the magic touch, huh?” She nods proudly, cheeks and forehead smudged with dirt, the gap where her front teeth had been giving her grin a crooked charm.

From the open window of the cabin, the sound of a wooden spoon clattering against the side of a pot rings out, followed by the soft hum of his spouse’s voice. Inside, you’re moving slowly around the stove, a scarf tied around your shoulders with the baby boy nestled snug against your back. He coos and gurgles as your stir the stew. Arthur glances up toward the sound, catching a glimpse of his beloved through the curtain. Loose hair framed around your face, and the scarf was the one of the silk ones you used to wear when he met you in that brothel in Saint Denis.

Funny, he thought. Back then, you looked untouchable. He’d gone in looking for comfort. And you gave him something else entirely. He never planned on taking anyone away from a place like that. But one night turned to three, then a whole month, and then you asked him why he always looked so sad. He hadn’t had an answer, but he’d asked you to leave with him the next week.

Arthur wipes his palms on his trousers and straightens up, stretching the ache from his back. He watches the kids run, little legs kicking up the dirt, voices shrill with joy.

Some nights, when the baby cries and the other two can’t sleep, and the cabin feels too small—he still doubts himself. Is he good enough? Does he deserve this?