#decadesb

Soon after Martha’s birth, Catherine returned to work. Although Francis’ parents sent them money, it wasn’t enough to cover their daily expenses, and even Catherine’s brother, Cecil, had began work in a tire shop after school. As a result, Francis and Martha were together for most of the day.

It took a little adjusting, given the fact that Francis was still practically a child himself at only twenty years old, but he doted on his little girl every second of the day.

Of course, Catherine’s mother, Beatrice, cherished her new granddaughter, and taught Francis and Catherine the ins and outs of parenthood. Even when Catherine couldn’t be there for her daughter during her long days at work, she was always happy to come home knowing that her Martha was well cared-for.

More months passed, and arrangements were finally made for Francis to return home as the war finally drew to a close in the Fall of 1918. The war had finally ended, and Francis was deemed stable enough to travel back to Windenburg (luckily, by a doctor with far more respect for his nurses than the first doctor he’d met). As excited as he was to return home, he couldn’t help but miss Catherine--and to wonder if she felt the same way.

His last day in Catherine’s care, he spoke up.

“Catherine,” he asked, “Would it be alright if I wrote to you? When I return  home, I mean?”

Catherine paused for a moment, and Francis’s heart sank. Had he been too forward?

“Of course,” she said, smiling. “Where else am I to hear such terrible jokes?”

Francis laughed, and Catherine handed him a piece of paper.

“It has my mailing address written on it.”

Francis moved his fingers along the paper, surprised to find a series of dots in place of letters.

“It’s in braille,” Catherine explained. “So when you learn braille, you can read it yourself. And there are braille typewriters, too,” she finished sheepishly, “so you can write to me yourself.”

Unbeknownst to Francis, his and Catherine’s faces had now turned the same shade of bright red.

“--Only if you want to, of course, you don’t have to--” Catherine stuttered.

“Of course I will,” Francis said. “Who else can I bribe to read to me in the middle of the night?”

   Catherine smiled, and planted a quick kiss on his forehead.

   Francis paused for a moment, touching his hand to his forehead.

   “I’m sorry,” Catherine said quickly. “Was that too much?”

   Francis shook his head, grinning. “No.”

Losing her career in nursing weighed on Catherine, and her heart dropped as she felt the pains of labor coming on nearly a month early. Her mother, a midwife, reassured her that everything would be fine, and joined her daughter in her apartment to prepare for the labor and calm her daughter down, but her fears (and Francis’s) were only quieted after a long and difficult labor, and she could finally hold little Martha in her arms.

Even though she had been rather scared to give birth to her first child while Influenza still held the world in its grip, Francis was far worse. He’d constantly worried ever since he first learned of Catherine’s pregnancy, and insisted on carrying anything even slightly heavier than a dinner plate. 

He’d also worried plenty about his role as a father. He knew from the whispered comments on the street and the occasional wails of passing children that his burns were far more visible than he would have liked, and he constantly thought about the many things he simply couldn’t do. His father had never been one for sports, but he had kicked a ball around every once in a while. Such a simple thing, and yet Francis feared it would be almost impossible. Even simply running and playing with his child felt like it would be an insurmountable task. 

But Catherine, guessing at her husband’s thoughts, gently placed baby Martha into Francis’s arms, and he found himself sobbing without even knowing why. 

With the midwife’s permission, he ran his fingers gently along Martha’s face, trying to build a picture in his mind of what his daughter looked like. Even though he knew he would never truly see her face, and the thought saddened him, he felt as if he already knew her. 

“We have a baby girl, my love,” Francis mumbled in amazement in between sobs, trying to choke back further tears so he didn’t cry onto the baby. “We have a baby girl.”

Catherine bent down and kissed her daughter’s forehead, and touched Francis’s shoulder to gesture for him to do the same. 

“No, I--” he stuttered. “Are you sure I should? My face is a little rough, you know, and I don’t want to frighten her--”

Catherine sighed loudly and planted a kiss on the scar tissue that plastered his cheek. 

Even without seeing her face, Francis knew when Catherine was feeling particularly stubborn (which was most of the time), and gingerly kissed Martha’s forehead, and she--much to his surprise--grabbed onto his nose.

“See?” Catherine said, ruffling his hair. “She already likes you more than me.” 

Francis laughed, but it came out as more of a sob, and he placed his finger on his daughter’s nose with another laugh. 

“I can do that too, you know,” he said to the baby, grinning as he wiped the tears from his cheeks before the three of them settled into bed for the night.

Francis scoffed and relaxed into Catherine’s embrace, leaning his head against hers as he pulled the box from his pocket.

“The saleswoman said it was beautiful,” he said sheepishly. “I know it’s not much—or, well, at least it doesn’t feel like much, but—”

“No, Francis, it’s perfect,” Catherine said, wiping tears from her eyes. “It’s perfect.”

“Well,” Francis began. “It’s not as if I’ll ever see the difference.”

Catherine let out a snort and punched him in the arm once more before falling back into his embrace. 

“We’re naming the baby Catherine the Second, by the way,” Catherine mumbled into his chest. “Enough of that ‘Francis the Fourteenth’ nonsense, women deserve to name their children ridiculous things, too.”

Francis laughed again and planted a kiss on her lips as she wrapped her arms around him.

One particularly hard day, Catherine shuffled wordlessly into her bedroom, laid her head on Francis’s shoulder, and began to sob. 

“Oh, love,” Francis whispered, enveloping her in a hug. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Catherine just cried harder, and Francis hugged her tighter, as if all the love he had for her could undo whatever terrible thing she had witnessed that day. 

“I think I’m pregnant,” Catherine suddenly announced, managing to stifle her sobs as she hugged Francis tighter.

Francis, once again, felt like a fish out of water, the same way he’d felt when he’d first met her: a mixture of shock and awe, as if he was feeling every emotion all at once.

“...You’re pregnant?” he repeated after her. 

“Yes,” she said, brushing tears from her eyes. “But now I can’t work anymore because I can’t put the baby at risk, and we don’t have enough room or money or time for a baby and I’ll never be able to work as a nurse again because I’ll have had a child out of wedlock and--”

Francis slid off the bed and joined her on the floor, hugging her tighter. “Catherine,” he whispered. “It’s alright, love. It’s alright. Everything will be fine, just--just sit down.”

Catherine obliged, and buried her face in the shoulder of Francis’s sweater as he wrapped his arm around her.

They sat in silence for a moment before Francis spoke up. 

“You’re afraid for your reputation?” he asked. 

“Yes,” Catherine sniffled. “I know it’s vain, but--”

“Catherine,” Francis said quietly. “I have five sisters, I know how important your reputation can be.” 

Catherine let out a harsh laugh, and Francis tightened his grip on her shoulder, leaning his head against hers. 

“If I don’t show up for work tomorrow, everyone will know, and I’ll never be able to work again. I can’t put the baby in danger, but we need the money, and--” 

“--my mother sends money, I can ask her--”

“--I can’t take your family’s money, Francis--” Catherine cried, her voice falling in defeat as Francis held her hand in his. 

“But what if it was our money?” Francis blurted out. 

“I--What do you mean?”

“I mean,” Francis stuttered, suddenly realizing what he was suggesting. “What if we married?”

Francis’s heart seemed to skip a beat. Catherine was silent for a moment. He couldn’t see her face, so he felt his heart drop as the conversation paused, the only sound being Catherine’s shallow, panicked breathing.

What if it was too soon? What if he’d said something wrong, and he just couldn’t see the panicked look on her face?

The box in his pocket seemed to turn to lead.

Much to Francis’s surprise, Catherine began to laugh. 

“I was just about to ask you the same thing,” Catherine said, wiping away tears. 

“I’m sorry,” Francis began again. “I know that I’m a burden, and I’ll be a terrible father and the nightmares will never stop, but we can get it annulled eventually, if you want.”

Another pause, and Francis received a swift punch in the arm.

“Francis Elliot Baumann,” Catherine lectured, raising her voice as she stood. “Do you honestly think that I would propose to you if I thought you were a burden? Or will be a terrible father?”

Francis bit his lip and clenched his jaw in embarrassment.