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Agatha looked in the mirror it was not the face of a child. It was not the face of the girl who crossed the ocean and touched the waves with her hand and laughed With such dreams of adventure and prosperity and stability, far away from the iced clouds of Germany. It was not the face of a bride or the face of a mother. It was not the face of a wife. She looked in the mirror and she saw the face of a woman defeated who had lost everything, her husband her home, her son, her future family. In that face, Agatha saw sorrow.
Her breath was ragged.
Each time she drew in, her lungs contracted as if they too felt her defeat, and we’re so ashamed of her that they did not what to continue to sustain her.