The House That Learned to Laugh Again
Our wedding was small — a local pastor, two friends, and a table of home-cooked food in my backyard. The town whispered, of course.
“He married a beggar?”
“That’ll never last.”
But while they talked, we built a life.
Hannah wasn’t used to housework. She burned the first few meals and nearly fainted the first time a chicken fluttered past her. But she learned — and she tried — and every day, she smiled a little more.
The house that had once been silent now echoed with laughter, the smell of stew simmering on the stove, and the faint melody of her humming while she worked.
A year later, our son was born. Two years after that, a daughter.
Every time I heard little voices calling “Mom” and “Dad,” I thanked the cold winter that had led me to her.
