“Go on and dry your hands. You don’t want rough, cracked hands like this old hen,” Mrs. Caldwell chided gently, shooing her daughter out of the kitchen, “I’ll finish up in here.”

“Thanks, mama,” the young woman said. She gave her mother a brief but strong hug and scurried out of the kitchen before her tears could hit the floor.

Mrs. Caldwell stared down into the sink, considering with patient ease the swirling dance of bubbles, grease, and grime. She let her eyes lose focus, her sight drift past the layer of filth on the top of the water but not to the few remaining dishes beneath. Years of practice let her mind see.

For an instant, Mrs. Caldwell was sure she could see his face, weather-beaten but defiant. Just as quickly the image was gone, replaced with an old pie pan, the one with the moon shaped dent in the middle where crusts always stuck no matter how much she smeared it with lard.

“Leave her be, John. Let the girl be,” she whispered harshly after the fading visage, but it was gone.