John

We wanted a baby for so many years. We had so many die on us. We had each such a short time. We lost them all, miscarried or stillborn or croup. You see some people with their children; and they’re so careless. They don’t see how fragile and precious babies are.

My girl. My Annabell. The one we found. I was so careful the thirteen years she was ours. Not careful enough. I never thought I’d send mine to school. Like every father, I’d wanted a boy. He’d be a baker, like me. My girl, she had quick sure hands, she would have been a fine baker. I never regretted that she wasn’t a son.

If we had not sent her to school, maybe she’d still be with us. I think “why?” over and over. My head echoes and hurts with “why?” We sent her because she was filled with something too big to hold in a kitchen.

Annabell

I grew to be a plump and conceited child. But I was cheerful, generous, and industrious. I worked alongside my parents. I learned the satisfaction of bringing cleanliness and order, from my mother. At the oven, I learned the joy of feeding, nurturing, from my father.

If not: I was interested in John's words, since he was torn apart (though much more would have made me impatient). I didn't like Annabelle's; I was thinking, get to the story already! Show me what's happening in the moment, rather than summarizing what your life's like.

We, WE, WE I think to many We's for starters. And then - the one we found. They found a baby? I think this might need some exploration or explanation. Why wouldn't you send yours to school?

Just my 2cents