It was rather discomforting to understand that I killed my mother coming out of her, but since I never really knew the woman and I still had my dad, I can’t say I felt such a large loss. My father filled any void my mother could have left and I think, if she could have seen him, she would have been proud.

On Sundays we would take picnics by the river and on Wednesdays we spent our time in the library, reading to each other. I was taught to read and write before I was five and I had read much of the library by the time I was ten. I adored my father. He was a good man. In the winter of 1631, he got sick.

Have you ever looked into the eyes of someone you loved and told them that everything was going to be okay when you knew perfectly well that it wasn’t? Have you ever waited on someone hand and foot, not caring in the least about yourself because you hoped that your good deeds would somehow make them feel better? I have. And believe it or not, I know someone else who has too. My wicked stepmother.