Three months ago, my husband, Second Lieutenant Daniel Hawthorne, and his older brother, Thomas, were deployed to the front.A month later, only Daniel came back.Thomas was dead.In a time like this—when cities burned overnight and lives disappeared without warning—a widow had no ground to stand on. Eleanor, Thomas’s wife, unraveled quickly. She cried until her voice broke, starved herself, wandered at night as if hoping the war might take her too.She tried to end her life.More than once.I stayed with her.I talked to her, held her, reminded her that she was not alone, that she still mattered, that Thomas would never forgive us if we let her follow him into death. Daniel stayed with me, or so I believed. He said it was his responsibility, that Thomas had entrusted Eleanor to him.Two days ago, everything changed.Eleanor came back from the hospital holding a pregnancy report.Three months pregnant.Everyone called it a miracle. A mercy. Proof that God had not taken everything fro
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