Bethany, House of Song
Martha's Prologue. Life. Winter, AD 8
“Isn’t he beautiful, girls?”
Mama sat in the bed, still desperately weak from childbirth, holding our baby brother in her arms. He was two days old and, after much coaxing, had finally begun nursing in earnest. The icy February wind cut into the room, despite our having lined the door and window with rags.
His delivery had been difficult, taking longer than a third-born child should have, and the longed-for son had been reluctant to kick and fuss upon arrival. At twelve, I had witnessed several births, and I knew there was a problem when what should have been a lusty newborn cry came out as a whimper.