The rest of the day goes smoothly, though it’s cut short on account of Edward growing tired earlier than expected.

After we leave the post office, we take a short walk to the Grahams’ farm. It’s just on the edge of the village, nestled between gently rolling hills and surrounded by pale wooden fences and vast stretches of green fields. The gravel path crunches beneath our shoes as we approach a cozy, two-story farmhouse. Its stone façade is softened by overgrown ivy and bursts of wildflowers, with vines of pink roses winding up the porch columns. The windows are large and open, letting in the crisp spring air and the warm scent of fresh bread.

As soon as we reach the front door, it swings open.

“Hi! You must be Florence. I’m June, Clement’s wife,” says the woman who greets us, her voice cheerful and unguarded. She immediately steps forward and wraps me in a warm, casual hug. I return the gesture, struck by how natural it feels.

She’s a petite woman—shorter than me, even—with a crisp white dress under a pale blue-and-white striped apron that has frills along the edges. Her strawberry-blonde hair is gathered into a tidy bun, with a few soft curls escaping to frame her freckled cheeks. Her hazel eyes shimmer with a faint green undertone that makes me think, almost instantly, of Margaret. There’s something in June’s whole manner—something bright and tender, unafraid and sincere—that reminds me so vividly of her.

Over her shoulder stands a man who I assume is Clement. He has tousled auburn hair, thick brows, and deep-set brown eyes. He looks youthful at a glance, but his weathered hands and the fine lines around his eyes give away a few more years than his smile suggests.

“Edward! Long time no see,” Clement greets him, striding forward and giving him a hearty pat on the back. Then, turning to me with a broad grin, he adds, “And you must be Florence. Edward’s said nothing but lovely things about you. Talks about you nonstop, you know?”

Edward flushes and looks away with an awkward laugh. “Sure I do.”

“Come on, Ed, don’t be shy,” Clement teases. “Come in, both of you! Don’t stand out there in the cold.”

They step aside, and we enter the house. It has the same kind of layout as the one Edward and I are staying in: a narrow but welcoming entryway, with the stairs curving up along the left and the kitchen branching off to the right. Light streams in from high windows above the door, casting golden rectangles across the wood floors. A beige rug runs the length of the hallway, worn soft in the middle from years of footsteps. The walls are crowded with framed photographs—black-and-white ones of ancestors, colored ones of the girls, and one or two painted landscapes.

I pause to look at one of the photographs. It shows June and Clement holding their twin daughters, who appear to be around three years old. The girls are dressed in nearly identical outfits—short-sleeved white blouses tucked into denim skorts. One of the twins, the one in June’s arms, has her hand partly covering her mouth and wears a hesitant expression. The other, held by Clement, grins openly, her cheeks plump and her eyes sparkling amber.

Next to it is another photograph of the girls alone, this time dressed in matching pastel pink dresses with big bows in their hair, standing in what looks like their bedroom. One of them smiles a quiet, closed-mouth smile. The other’s grin is wide and unrestrained, full of energy.

“You’re probably wondering who’s who,” Clement says behind me.

I turn, smiling. “That obvious?”

He chuckles. “It always is. This one’s Genevieve, and that’s Grace.”

“They’re identical?” I ask, studying the photos again.

“In looks, yes,” June chimes in. “But not in temperament. Grace is the chatterbox. Genevieve’s a quiet one. Sweet, but more reserved.”

“Genevieve has a birthmark on her neck,” Clement adds. “That helps.”

“I see,” I say, intrigued. For a moment, the idea of having twin daughters flits through my mind. I imagine holding one in each arm, dressing them in matching ribbons, watching them grow into distinct little people. If I ever have children, I think, I’d like daughters. I never quite picture myself raising boys.

“Come, come,” June says, beckoning us further in. “Lunch is nearly ready.”

The kitchen has a lived-in charm. The cabinets are a creamy white, with mismatched knobs, and the counters are a soft tan. A vase of daffodils sits in the middle of the counter. The scent of herbs and garlic wafts through the air.

We follow her into the dining room, where the table is already set. It’s a round wooden table with six chairs, and each setting has citrus-themed plates with yellow and green detailing. The silverware is polished and lined up precisely, and the napkins are folded into tidy triangles. At the far end of the table sit the twins, perched in their chairs like little princesses. They wear short-sleeved white dresses with scalloped hems.

“Hi!” one of them chirps brightly—Grace, without a doubt.

The other one sits more stiffly, eyeing us with suspicion.

“Hi there,” I say warmly, taking the seat across from Grace. Edward sits beside me, directly across from Genevieve.

“Who are you?” Genevieve asks, tilting her head slightly.

“I’m Florence,” I reply with a smile. “And this is my husband, Edward.”

“Vivi, Mommy told us they were coming,” Grace reminds her, nudging her sister gently.

“I know. I just wanted to be sure,” Genevieve mutters.

“Don’t mind Vivi,” June says fondly. “She just takes a while to warm up.”

She and Clement go to retrieve the first course, which turns out to be vermicelli soup with bits of carrot and parsley. The broth is rich and aromatic, and slices of toasted bread are served on the side. The girls immediately start drinking straight from their bowls, letting the broth drip down their chins and onto their dresses.

“Genevieve! Grace!” June scolds. “We are not wild animals. Use your spoons, please!”

She gently guides their hands to the correct utensils and wipes their mouths with a cloth. I can’t help smiling. Edward, too, stifles a quiet chuckle.

“What?” Genevieve snaps, her brow furrowing.

“Nothing,” I say gently. “You two are just adorable.”

We continue eating, the room filling with the warm clinks of cutlery and the occasional murmur of conversation. I stand to help clear the dishes, but June waves me off.

“You’re our guests,” she insists. “Let me spoil you.”

As she bustles back into the kitchen, Edward turns to Clement. “Aren’t you going to help her?”

“Nah,” Clement says with a grin. “She says I’m more trouble than I’m worth in there.”

Edward laughs. “That doesn’t surprise me.”

Clement feigns offense, clutching his chest. “How rude.”

Their back-and-forth is lighthearted, but I watch them carefully, wondering what their dynamic might be if we lived in another world—one where Edward isn’t bound to me, and I’m not bound to secrecy. A world where he could love freely. A world where I could be with Margaret.

I imagine it, just for a moment: a marriage of convenience between Edward and me. We’d be partners, yes—but only in name. Behind closed doors, we’d each love who we truly love. Maybe it wouldn’t be such a tragic life after all.

“Well, what do you think?” Edward asks suddenly.

I blink. “Sorry?”

“You zoned out,” he says with a faint smile.

“Right. Sorry. Just…thinking.”

He nods, not pressing further.

June returns with the main course—filet mignon with sautéed mushrooms, buttery roasted brussels sprouts, and mashed potatoes. The meat practically melts in my mouth. The girls eat enthusiastically, Grace talking between mouthfuls and Genevieve sitting in near silence.

“When do you plan to have children?” June asks abruptly, her tone casual but curious.

“In a few months, perhaps,” I say. “We’ve only just returned from the honeymoon.”

June smiles. “You’d make a wonderful mother. Even Vivi likes you.”

I glance over at Genevieve, who looks away quickly, as if embarrassed. My heart warms.

“Thank you,” I say.

“Don’t thank me,” June replies, “I’m only telling the truth.”

I smile at her, my mind spinning. Maybe motherhood wouldn’t be so terrible. Maybe I could grow to love parts of this life. Maybe—just maybe—I’d even have more than two.

Maybe.