interpolation;

Everything's a mess.

Obviously, harvest season meant work kept piling up, and each day the crops were ripening meant a day we couldn't afford not to be on top of them. Raquel was one-and-a-half - that age where she was old enough to toddle off by herself, and you couldn't take your eyes off her for a second or she'd stumble into something dangerous.

There's a knock at the door, and for a second it's drowned out by Raquel's feet happily banging away against the wall as she wakes from her nap. But the rapping comes again, more rhythmic and insistent, and when I answer it Maybelle's boyfriend is standing there, scowl on his face and tossing a machine part between his hands.

"I hope this ain't too much of a bother," Eri says. "But Maybelle sent me - she tells me you're good with fixin' stuff, so we reckon you might help us take a look at somethin'."

"Sure, give me a minute here." I fold a blanket in half and swaddle Raquel tightly onto my back before setting off with him towards the Woodruffs' orchards. The whole way there is filled with Eri's muttering; about how much productivity they'd be losing every hour for each broken harvester, how the guy who'd sold the machines to Maybelle's father was probably a con man trying to sell lemons, how the other workers had used the broken harvesters as an excuse to take the rest of the day off and go drinking together.

(And if this salesman is who I think it is, then he was almost definitely scamming them.)

"She's growing so fast," Maybelle coos when we reach the tool shed. "Want me to hold her?"

She lifts Raquel into her arms and cradles her like a natural; Raquel has barely started fussing before Maybelle hums one of her orchard lullabies, and she becomes enraptured by her voice. There's a twinge of jealousy, as I pick up the toolbox; as I watch Maybelle bouncing her up and down while she and Eri make eyes at each other.

You don't know how to love, Ma's voice hisses -

I take a deep breath, remember what I came here for. Try not to think about how she's not even seventeen and already better at being a mother. Open up the side panel to check each of the connections, just like Pa taught me years ago.

"Yep. He put a cheap piece of - junk," I censor myself as I dig the bent fragment out, because Raquel is still within earshot, "instead of a properly fitting assembly."

And people looked at that salesman, aspiring to be as 'successful' even if they had to kick others down to do it, even if folks could get killed by the stuff he sold, because there was no justice in the world.

"Eri." He turns around. "Go into town, and Agatha should be selling a few of these in her store - don't worry, she always deals fair."

"Got it," he replies, walking off; belatedly, I wonder if I oughtn't have made it seem so much like a command.

Boys don't like it when you act like you know more than them, the voice chides. Even if you do.

But I was never one for pretending to be things I wasn't, because I could hardly ever figure out what to pretend as; it was much easier to say only true things, and not have to keep a collection of half-Emmas in my head for different people.

Then again. Eri Sage wasn't the sort of boy to care more about puffing up his own ego than about getting work done. I don't go around helping fix things for assholes, anyway.

It's late, by the time he turns up again with the parts, and we finally manage to get one of them working again; Maybelle sends the two of us off with a basket of peaches and tells me of how she imagines herself one day with a whole bunch of girls just like Raquel, all running around at her feet. And she is so nice, so genuine, that I feel guilty over watching her play with my daughter, and having been jealous.


When we get home, Vasco's standing there in the kitchen, rinsing out the dishes. The ones all the way from breakfast, because I'd meant to let them soak, and forgotten about them when Eri called me over.

"How was your day?"

There's a tension rising in my shoulders, clenching in my chest -

T̙h͉i̭s̘ ̦i̩s̻n̥'̹t̬ ͖t̠h͉e̫ ̦f̡i͚r͍s̠t͕ ͅt̩i͈m͕e͕ ͜y̥ǫu̙'̰v̦e͙ ͜f̤o̗r̼g̟o͔tͅt͍e̥n̩,̗ ̰i͉s͚ ͔iͅț?͖ ̪O̘n̟cͅe̦ ͈o̹r̦ ̪t͜w͕i̦c̲e̙,̼ ̦f͍i͎n͍e͕.̗ ̬B͖u̠t̮ ̨m̙o̡r͉e̬ ̜t̡ẖa̫n̜ ̲t̘h͚r͓e͍ḛ ͙t̹i͈m͕e͕s̹,͎ ͅa̙n̡d̡ ̣y̢o̯uͅr̥ ̞h͚u̧s̲b̪a͙n͜d͍ ̝w͔i͖l̗l͚ ͔g̟r̯o̫w̰ ̺t̢o̺ ̜d̲e̮t̼e̤s̖t̩ ͚y̫o̧u̱.͖

and the words I'm sorry almost slip from my lips, before I catch myself;

Y̘o̱u̺ ̪t̝h̰i̦n̡k̢ ̫w̜e̗ ̘w̦a̯n͎t̠ ͍t̳o̰ ̳h̫e̮a̲ŗ ̥y̰o̰u̟r͖ ̘e̟m̝p̪t̳y͇ ͈a͚p͇o̞l̺o̪ģi̗e͔s͔?̮ ̡Y̹o̞u̥ ̧t͙h͓i̫n̩k͍ ͍w̢h͚i͉n͕įn̤g̞ ͔t̩h̦a̡ṯ ̱y̦o̜u̩'̪r͚e̖ ͍s̠o͜rͅr̙y͎ ̞w͍i̺ļl̻ ̬f͎i͉x̮ ̦a̖n̘y̖t̰h̪i͓n̫g͇?̗

- in the silence I realize I'd been half expecting Vasco to berate me for the dishes, for the crumbs Raquel had dumped on the floor, for - but he doesn't. He wouldn't. Of course he wouldn't.

"Eri Sage asked me to help repair their harvesters this afternoon," I say instead.

O̭ḥ?̥ ̯Y̡o̬u͕ ͖w̮a̻n̫t̨e̩d̳ ̺țo̞ ͔h͔e̻l̹p̨?̤ ͍Y̭o͈u̠ ̹a̖çt͈ ͙l͖įk̫e̹ ̯y̩o͇u̦'̭r̰e̡ ̟a̬l̫l̫ ̣g̟e̠n̠ęr̘ǫu͍s͍ ̘o͕r̳ ̮t̲h̬o̰u͜g̝h̬t͈f̼u̮l̙ ̗o͙r̞ ̟s͍o̮m̲e̼t̞h̤i͕n̯ģ,͇ ̖b͚u̺t̻ ̢t̠h̲e̤ ̫o̪n̖l̢y͚ ̪t̲h̨i̬n̪g͓ ̬y̥o̰u͍ ̥a͈r̲e̞ ͈i̙s̳ ̪i̺ṟr̬e͜s̳p͎o͇n͇s͔įb͍l̥e͕.͚ ͅI̠f̯ ̭I̝ ̟w̪e̥r͜e͈ ̣y̻o̬u̘,̝ ̯I̯ ͜w̩o̫u̘l̢d̨nͅ'̰tͅ ̱e͜v͚e̹n͓ ̰h͖a̜v͎e͇ ͎c̗o͉n̗şi͉d̪e̡r̲e͓d͉ ̟a̺g͈r͈e̳e͍i͓n͔g͇ ̭u͔n̖t̰i̯l̻ ͖e̩v̢e͚r̼y̜ ̱l̥a̖s̯t͉ ̣s̜p̖oͅt̮ ̜i͇n̡ ̱h̜e͎rͅe̝ ̞ḭs̡ ̖c̼l͙e̳a̖n̤.̭

The house is a mess.

I͚'̖m̥ ̳a̼ ̜m̬e͇s͈s̜.̖

"Are you all right?"

"Yeah. Thanks. I'll get dinner started. Do you want a peach? They gave me a basket of 'em. I haven't washed them, yet."

There are still two bundles of vegetables, and together with the tomatoes they will make a nice salad; enough bread for the three of us, but I must stop by the bakery again tomorrow to pick up more; there is a little salted meat, to go with the -

"... you sure you're all right?"

You know you can always tell me what's on your mind, he'd say - and he'd mean it, too; I remind myself that I've never had reason to regret confessing my thoughts to him. That the man in front of me is far more worthy of my trust than old echoes whispering doubts in my head.

"I feel bad, when I forget to tidy everything." The words come slowly; and spoken out loud, in this cozy house so often filled with warmth and laughter, it almost seems like a silly thing to worry about. "I know I ought to, but I keep losing track of stuff, and I should just start makin' a list or somethin' -"

"Hey. I'm here to support you and help, honey."

I throw my arms around him so tightly that Vasco nearly drops the plate he's holding, and I breathe in, my head resting on his shoulders - the scent of the boy I told stories with, the man I stood up for, the husband I cherish.

We've already been talking of having a couple more kids, to round out our family and give Raquel a younger sibling or two. Sometimes I worry - that if I'm so uncertain whether my love is enough for one child, then it won't be enough for three; but love isn't something that runs out if you give too much, and if you try to hoard and ration it, it only withers.

Raquel tips one of the bowls over; sauce drips from the table and oozes along a crack between the floorboards, surely leaving a stain in the wood; I fight these thoughts down, and look instead to her smile, because -

Ṉo̫ ̫o̪n̺e̝ ͅw͍i̱l̙l̹ ̡e̺v̫e̪r͈ ̯l͚o̧v̠e̯ ̗y̻o̦u̙,͔ ̭E͜mͅm̤a̭,͖ ̦l͓i̪k̟e̪ ̲Iͅ ̜d̼o͇.̭ ͎B̹u̢t̠ ̘I̤'̲m̙ ̰yͅo̫u̡r̨ ͈M̼a̰,̳ ͎a͎n͈d̹ ̣I̻'̟l̢l͙ ̲ṇe̡v̫e̙r͕ ͔l͔e̱t̪ ͅg̙o͚.͈

- there are worse ways to be a mother than messy.