The sun had barely risen over the township rooftops when Miriam stirred from her thin mattress. The house was quiet, but not peaceful---quiet in the way of exhaustion, where even silence carried the weight of yesterday's battles.
Her six children lay scattered across the small rooms, curled under patched blankets. The youngest, little Ruth, breathed softly against her sister's shoulder. Miriam paused to watch them, her heart aching with both love and worry. She had promised herself long ago that no matter how heavy life became, she would shield them from despair.
But shielding them was harder now.
Caleb, her second-born son, had not come home the night before. She knew where he was---out with the boys who smoked and laughed at the church, who called her prayers "old woman's nonsense." He had started with marijuana, but it was not the drug alone that frightened Miriam. It was the way it changed him---the sharpness in his voice, the defiance in his eyes, the fists that sometimes struck when he was high and angry.
She pressed her hand to her chest, whispering a prayer: *"Lord, give me strength. I cannot fight this war alone."*
The kettle hissed on the stove. Miriam moved with practiced rhythm, pouring tea, slicing bread, setting out bowls of porridge. Her hands were steady, though her heart was not. She had learned to hide her trembling from the younger ones.
"Ma," whispered Samuel, her eldest, stepping into the kitchen. His shoulders carried the weight of a boy forced to grow too fast. "Do you want me to look for Caleb?"
Miriam shook her head. "No, my son. Let him come when he is ready. Today is Sunday. We will go to church."
Samuel nodded, though his eyes betrayed doubt. He had seen too many Sundays end in shouting matches, too many mornings where Caleb refused to dress, refused to pray, refused to walk through the church doors.
Miriam straightened her back. She would not let fear dictate her household. She gathered her children, smoothing Ruth's hair, tying David's shoelaces, reminding Esther to carry her Bible. They were her army of innocence, her proof that love could still bloom in hardship.
As they stepped into the morning light, Miriam's gaze lingered on the empty chair at the table---the place where Caleb should have been. Her heart clenched, but she whispered again: *"I will not give up on him. Even if it breaks me, I will not give up."*