engleză
In the afternoon of June 22, 1958, a woman paces in her kitchen. Her footsteps echo as she goes back and forth, back and forth, and back and forth. The thrumming of her heart quickens to match the kitchen timer as she waits, and she places a hand under her swollen belly. In the aftermath of the baby shower - with her husband's proud colleagues, her judgmental but enthusiastic in-laws, and the imagining of names for the darling baby boy to carry on the family name - things had been good again. And when things were good, they were great.
A knock at the back door. She flies to it, flinging it open, and peppers his face in kisses. Her bag is tucked under one of his arms before she knows it - and with it, the entirety of her life.
His name is Lucas. Father Lucas to the congregation and other churchgoers, Mr. Lucas to the boy that delivers his bread and milk every Sunday, and a rather colorful assortment of names to her husband.
But to her, he is just Luke.
