The wealthy keep their fancy houses near the village center. The Putnams. The Walcotts. All of them with snug houses and plenty to eat. I despise them, each and every one. They offer charity but turn me away. They don’t care if my children starve.
“Mam?”
I cringe, clutch my infant more closely, and look down at Dorothy rubbing her hand across her belly. What will it be this time? She’s hungry or tired or cold. Always something.
“What do ye want, Dorothy?”
“Mam, I’m hungry.”
“We took eggs from a chicken this mornin’. ’Ow can ye be hungry?”
“Because . . .” Tears well up in her eyes.
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