She took my hands again, shaking her head. "That wasn't at all what I was implying. I'm sorry." Maggie lowered her voice without making a fuss of it, the way women did when they were passing along things that mattered. "I just want to make sure you understand how it all works," she said softly. "Bodies, babies, all of it. No surprises you're not ready for."
Heat rushed to my cheeks. I nodded, staring into my coffee like it might rescue me. "We've only… it's only been a few days," I admitted. "I didn't plan—any of it."
Maggie snorted, not unkindly. "No one ever does." She reached over and squeezed my hand. "Listen to me, sweetheart. My son doesn't do anything halfway. If there's a baby, there'll be a ring. If there's a ring, there'll be a wedding. And if there's a wedding—" her eyes twinkled, "—there'll be half the county showing up whether you want them to or not."
I let out a shaky laugh and held up my hand with the ring. Maggie took it and scrutinized it. "Hmm, he did good." She nodded in approval, finally releasing some of the tension inside me, even teasing a slow smile from me.
"He did." I looked at the ring lovingly.
"Do you know what a shotgun wedding is?" she asked, letting go of my hand.
I blinked. "I… assume it involves a gun?"
She barked a laugh, delighted. "It does, metaphorically. Means the groom's so eager to doright by the bride that folks joke someone's holding a shotgun to make sure he shows up." She waved a hand. "Not necessary in your case. Gideon'd walk himself down the aisle if he had to." Something in my chest loosened at that. The fear didn't vanish, but it softened, edged with hope instead of panic. "Well," Maggie said briskly, standing. "Then we'll plan properly. No worrying. That's my job now."
She bustled about, pulling tins from a cupboard. "You need breakfast. You're skin and bones."
She plopped down a plate of biscuits smothered in some white, creamy sauce. I blinked. "What is… that?"
Maggie froze, then looked from the plate to my face, horror dawning. "Oh Lord," she muttered. "You don't have gravy, do you?"
I shook my head slowly. "Not like this."
She laughed, already reaching for a fork. "Well then. Sit. Eat. We'll start with biscuits and gravy—and after that, we'll conquer the rest of your new life one step at a time."
Maggie caught my expression and blinked. "Not your thing?"
I shook my head apologetically. "In Germany, we… um… don't eat that. Not even before the war."
She laughed, a big, warm laugh that filled the whole kitchen. "Fair enough. What do you eat?"
I eyed the biscuit; it seemed edible enough. "Just a biscuit and some jam, please."
"Sounds good, actually. Let me get that for you."
She whisked the plate away, set it aside for someone else, I assumed, and brought out a new one with fresh, warm biscuits and a jar of thick red jam.
"Better?" she asked with a smile.
The first bite had me closing my eyes. "Oh," I whispered. "This tastes… like a holiday."
Maggie beamed. "Homemade. Strawberry. My mother's recipe."
Warmth spread through me, not just from the food, but from the feeling of beingseen, understood. We sat a moment in comfortable silence before she leaned forward, elbows on the table, chin in hand.
"So," she said. "Tell me everything. How did you meet my son?"
"He… rescued me."
"Of course he did," she muttered fondly. "Soft heart. Takes after me."
I smiled shyly and told her about the alley. The Russians. Gideon appearing, like a myth made real. Maggie's eyes grew soft, then fierce, then soft again.
"Well," she said, "sounds like he found his purpose the moment he found you."
My throat tightened. She took another sip of coffee, thenasked quietly, "And the children?Trümmerkinder? Tell me what that means."
I hesitated. "It means… rubble children. Kids who live on the streets. No parents. No homes. Sometimes they sleep in ruins. Sometimes in cellars. Many are orphans."
