The bruise on Miriam's cheek had darkened overnight, a silent reminder of the storm that lived within her son. She covered it with a scarf before stepping into the kitchen, unwilling to let the younger children see the full weight of her pain.
The morning air was heavy, but Miriam filled it with song. Her voice rose in a hymn, soft at first, then stronger as the children joined in. Ruth clapped her hands, David hummed off-key, and Esther's voice carried like a bell. For a moment, the house was alive with joy, pushing back the shadows that Caleb had left behind.
"Ma," Samuel said quietly, watching her. "You don't have to pretend. We know you're hurting."
Miriam touched his hand, her eyes steady. "I am hurting, yes. But I will not let pain steal our peace. We must hold on to the light, Samuel. For ourselves, and for Caleb."
Later that day, Miriam gathered her children around the table. She opened her Bible, reading aloud from Psalms: *"The Lord is my light and my salvation; whom shall I fear?"* Her voice trembled, but the words steadied her.
The children listened, their faces solemn. Miriam looked at each of them, her heart swelling with both love and sorrow. "We are a family," she said. "We will not let darkness win. Caleb is lost, but he is still ours. We will pray for him, and we will protect each other."
That evening, she cooked a simple meal---pap and stew---and served it with a smile. The children laughed, shared stories from school, and for a brief moment, the house felt whole again.
But Miriam's eyes kept drifting to the empty chair at the table. Caleb's absence was a wound that refused to heal. She whispered a prayer under her breath: *"Lord, guide him back. And until then, give me strength to carry the rest."*