Mary stirred, rolling over onto her back and drifting toward wakefulness. As Charlie deposited himself on the edge of the bed to pull on his boots, she gazed at his back with tired eyes. She didn’t want to wake. She didn’t want to rise and face another day of pain and discomfort. She longed for him to be like his son, to ease the strain of another day loaded with her burden with a kindly word or gesture. For a moment a feeling of anger rose within her, but was soon buried by overwhelming pain as the child stirred. Pausing at the bedroom door Charlie watched her, until he heard her push the air from between pursed lips as the pain subsided, his expression unmoved. As she swung her legs uneasily over the side of the bed, he turned and left.
“Come on Mary, times passing”. His words echoed up the painted plaster of the stairwell, prompting Mary to pull her shawl around her hastily and follow him. With hands stretched out to either wall she supported her weight, placing each foot with laboured precision on the bare wooden steps. As her bare foot settled finally on the stone floor separating the kitchen from the parlour she paused to catch her breath. Charlie was leaning against the mantle, prodding at the few embers remaining in the grate, muttering irritably.