Christina took a bite. Buttercream and fruit, sweet and tart at once. The baby kicked again, hard enough to make Christina wince.
“She likes blueberries and strawberries,” Ally observed, grinning.
“She likes everything.” Christina rubbed the spot where Violet’s foot had connected with her ribs. “I think she’s going to be trouble.”
“All the best ones are.” Dora had joined their little cluster by the window, purple caftan swishing as she moved. “Now, let me tell you about the blessing my grandmother used to give to expectant mothers. It’s an old mountain tradition—we’ll need some honey and a candle, and ideally we’d do it at sunset, but I suppose the storm makes that complicated...”
Dora was already reaching for one of Ally’s beeswax candles, her silver bracelets jingling as she moved. “Now, the honey Everyone gather close—this works best when the mother feels surrounded by her people.”
The other women exchanged glances—some curious, some knowing—but they drifted toward the window where Christina sat, forming a loose circle. The storm still raged outside, rain streaming down the glass in silver ribbons.
“Is this some kind of spell?” Linda from the hardware store asked, though she didn’t sound opposed to the idea.
Dora laughed, the sound warm and throaty. “Nothing so dramatic. Just an old way of welcoming a baby into the community. My grandmother did it for my mother, and my mother did it for me. We mountain women have always known that it takes more than one person to raise a child.”
She lit the beeswax candle, and the flame caught, sending the sweet scent of honey into the air. It mingled with the smell of rain and the lingering sugar from the cake, creating something that felt almost sacred.
“Christina, honey, give me your hands.”
Christina set down her plate and offered her palms. Dora’s fingers were dry and papery, surprisingly strong as they wrapped around hers.
“Now close your eyes.”
She obeyed suddenly aware of how quiet the room had become. The only sounds were the rain against the windows and the distant rumble of thunder moving away over the mountains.
“We’re going to pass the light around,” Dora said, her voice taking on a rhythmic quality. “Each woman will hold the candle for a moment and think of one thing she wishes for this baby. You don’t have to say it out loud—the light carries the intention.”
Christina heard the soft shuffle of movement, felt the subtle shift in the air as the candle made its way around the circle. The warmth of it passed close to her face once, twice, as different women held it near.
“Now,” Dora said, “we seal the blessing with sweetness.”
Something cool and smooth touched Christina’s lips—a spoon, she realized, with honey. The taste spread across her tongue, rich and floral, Ally’s wildflower harvest from early summer.
“Repeat after me,” Dora said. “I receive this blessing for my daughter.”
“I receive this blessing for my daughter.” Christina’s voice came out rough, thick with an emotion she couldn’t quite name.
“I accept the love of this community.”
“I accept the love of this community.”
“I will not carry my burdens alone.”
Christina’s throat closed. The words stuck there, sharp-edged and impossible. Because she was carrying her burden alone—had chosen to, was still choosing to every single day. These women thought they knew her, thought they were blessing a baby whose only complication was an absent father. They didn’t know the truth. They didn’t know about Marco, about the secret that grew heavier with every kind word and handmade gift.
“Christina?” Dora’s voice was gentle. “You can open your eyes.”
She did, blinking against the sudden brightness of the candle flame. The circle of women watched her with such tenderness, such genuine care, that it made her chest ache.
“I will not carry my burdens alone,” she finally managed.
Maybe it was a lie. Maybe it was hope. She couldn’t tell the difference anymore.
Dora released her hands and cupped Christina’s face, her palms warm from holding the candle. “There now. That baby knows she’s wanted. That’s the most important thing any child can know.”
The candle went out—a gust from somewhere, or maybe just the end of its purpose—and the spell broke. Women began talking again, reaching for more cake, commenting on how the rain was finally letting up. Through the window, Christina could see patches of blue breaking through the clouds, late afternoon sun turning the wet grass to gold.
“That was beautiful,” Emily said quietly, settling Grace against her shoulder.
