3. When the World Sleeps
WHEN THE WORLD SLEEPS
The cry came soft at first—a whimper that pulled Elizabeth from the edges of sleep. She lay still for a moment, listening, hoping Naomi might settle herself. But the whimper grew into a wail, urgent and insistent.
Elizabeth pushed back the quilt and swung her legs out of bed, her bare feet touching the cold wooden floor.
The room was dark save for the faint moonlight filtering through the window.
She moved by memory and instinct, finding the lamp on the small table and striking a match.
The flame caught, and warm light bloomed in the darkness.
“Kumm, kumm, mei lieva,” she murmured, moving to the cradle. Come, come, my dear one.
Naomi’s face was red and scrunched, her small fists waving in distress.
Elizabeth lifted her gently, checking first—was she wet?
Feverish? The diaper was soaked through.
She carried the baby to the changing table John had built into the corner, working quickly with practiced hands.
Fresh diaper. Clean gown. Soft words of comfort.
“’S ist gut. Mamm is here.”
Naomi’s cries softened to hiccupping whimpers as Elizabeth settled into the rocking chair by the window, adjusting her nightgown to nurse. The baby latched on hungrily, and Elizabeth winced at the initial pull before the tension eased into the familiar rhythm.
The house was completely silent around them. Even the usual creaks and settlings seemed to have stilled. This was the quietest part of night—that deep well of darkness between midnight and dawn when the whole world felt hushed and holy.
Elizabeth looked down at Naomi, whose small hand had found a fistful of her mother’s nightgown and gripped it tight. The baby’s eyes were already growing heavy again, her suckling slowing into the drowsy pattern that meant sleep wasn’t far behind.
This was their time. Had been since Naomi was born.
And in these quiet hours, when there was no one else to hear, Elizabeth had fallen into the habit of talking.
“Your dat would’ve liked to see this,” she said softly, her voice barely above a whisper. “You nursing in the middle of the night like you might starve if you wait another minute. He would’ve laughed at that determined look you get.”
She smoothed the dark curls away from Naomi’s forehead.
“You got your first tooth last week. Right there on the bottom. Sadie said you and John both were terrible grouchy when your teeth came in.” Her smile was small. “And you’re starting to laugh now too. Real laughs. Your dat would’ve loved that sound.”
The rocker creaked softly as Elizabeth moved back and forth, a rhythm as old as motherhood itself.
“Hannah’s making you a dress,” she continued. “Light blue, with tiny buttons. She’s doing this special stitch along the hem—said she learned it from Mamm. You would’ve loved Mamm, Eli. She would’ve spoiled this baby something awful.”
Elizabeth’s throat tightened, but she kept talking.
“She looks like you,” she said quietly. “Everyone says so. She has your chin—that stubborn set to it. And when she’s about to cry, she scrunches up her whole face just like you used to.”
Naomi had stopped nursing now, her mouth slack, milk-drunk and drowsy. But Elizabeth kept rocking, kept talking.
This was the harder part. The part that required more honesty than the sweet stories.
“I wish you could’ve stayed,” she whispered. “I wish you’d been brave enough to be a dat. To be a husband. I was so angry at you, Eli. You know that. So angry I thought it might break me open.”
She blinked back tears.
“I know you were scared. I understand that now—more than I did then. You didn’t know how to be what I needed.
What she needed.” Elizabeth looked down at Naomi’s sleeping face.
“And maybe... maybe it wasn’t fair of me to expect you to become someone you weren’t.
You told me once you wanted to see the world beyond Willowmead.
I thought you were joking. I thought you’d grow out of it. ”
The rocker creaked. Back and forth. Back and forth.
“But you couldn’t, could you? You couldn’t make yourself fit into this life. Into our life.” Her voice cracked. “And I can’t keep being angry at you for that. I can’t carry it anymore, Eli. It’s too heavy. And it’s poisoning me.”
She closed her eyes, tears slipping down her cheeks.
“So I’m putting it down. I’m forgiving you—not because what you did was right, but because I have to. For Naomi. For me.” She took a shaky breath. “I’m letting you go.”
The words hung in the air, and Elizabeth felt something shift in her chest. Not a breaking, but a loosening. Like a knot being gently untied.
She opened her eyes and looked down at her daughter.
“You came from love, mei bobbli. Maybe it wasn’t the kind of love that lasts forever, but it was real. Your dat loved me—in his way. And I loved him. And that love made you.” She pressed a kiss to Naomi’s forehead. “That’s enough. That’s more than enough.”
She rocked in silence for a few minutes, listening to Naomi’s soft breathing.
Then, quietly, she continued.
“Things are different now than I thought they’d be. We’re living here, in your family’s house. Your mamm takes care of us. Makes sure we have everything we need.” Elizabeth’s voice softened. “And your brother...”
She trailed off, uncertain how to finish that sentence.
John had been so kind. So steady. Always there when she needed him, always careful never to overstep.
He’d made this cradle she was looking at.
He’d fixed the loose board on the porch steps so she wouldn’t trip carrying Naomi.
He’d carved a small wooden horse that sat on the shelf above the changing table—something for Naomi to play with when she was older.
Small things. Quiet things.
Things that added up to something she was only just beginning to name.
“I don’t know what comes next,” Elizabeth whispered. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do, or feel, or... anything. But I think—” She swallowed. “I think I’m ready to find out.”
The admission settled over her like a benediction.
She wasn’t the same woman who’d married Eli two years ago. That Elizabeth had been young and hopeful and naive, believing that love was enough to hold two people together.
This Elizabeth knew better.
This Elizabeth had buried her mother, been abandoned by her husband, and given birth alone. She’d learned that love wasn’t enough—not by itself. Love needed commitment. Steadiness. The willingness to show up even when it was hard.
Love needed to be more than a feeling.
It needed to be a choice, made over and over again.
And somewhere in the learning of that lesson, she’d started to heal.
She looked down at Naomi, who was fully asleep now, her small body warm and heavy against Elizabeth’s chest.
“I’ll tell you about your dat,” she promised softly.
“When you’re old enough to ask. I’ll tell you he was handsome and funny.
That he could make people laugh. That he loved horses and open fields and the feeling of wind in his face.
That he wasn’t perfect—none of us are—but he gave us something precious. ”
She stood slowly, careful not to wake the baby, and carried her to the cradle. She laid Naomi down gently, adjusting the small quilt Hannah had made, tucking it around the baby’s legs.
“He gave us you,” Elizabeth whispered. “And I will never, ever let you feel ashamed of that.”
She stood there for a long moment, watching Naomi sleep. The baby’s chest rose and fell with perfect, peaceful rhythm. One small fist had worked its way out from under the quilt and rested near her cheek.
Elizabeth’s mind drifted—unbidden but inevitable—to John.
She wondered what Eli would think if he knew. If somehow, wherever he was, he could see what was growing in her heart.
She’d never know. And maybe that was all right. Eli had made his choices. She couldn’t wait forever for him to come back and tell her what to do next.
She had to live. Had to let Naomi see what it meant to choose joy after sorrow.
Elizabeth moved to the lamp and turned down the wick until the flame guttered out. She climbed back into bed, pulling the quilt up to her chin, and lay listening to Naomi’s soft breathing.
“I don’t know what I’m supposed to do,” she whispered into the darkness—to herself, to Gott, to whoever might be listening. “But I think... I think I’m ready to stop hiding from it.”
The words felt like a vow. Like a door opening.
She pulled the quilt closer and let herself sink toward sleep. And as she drifted, she felt something—not a presence exactly, but an absence of heaviness. Like a burden she’d been carrying had finally been set down.
Outside, the night was still deep and dark. But at the very edge of the window, just barely visible, the faintest lightening of the sky.
Not dawn yet.
But coming.
Elizabeth slept.
And for the first time in months, she didn’t dream of loss.
She dreamed of light.