Married Before Midnight by Sienna Quinn - Chapter 1

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Chapter 1: The Weight of Love


In 1983, at Maplewood, Ohio. USA.


The Carter house creaked under the weight of winter, its wooden bones groaning with every gust of wind that rattled the thin windows. The wallpaper, once a cheerful yellow, had faded to a sickly beige, peeling at the corners like neglected promises. Eleanor Whitmore stood at the kitchen sink, her chapped hands submerged in soapy water as she scrubbed a neighbor’s laundry—another small job to keep the electricity on. The water was lukewarm, the soap harsh, but she didn’t flinch. She had long since stopped noticing the sting. Upstairs, Henry Carter lay in the dim bedroom, his once-broad frame swallowed by the quilt Eleanor had patched together from old dresses. The illness had taken more than his strength; it had stolen his voice, his laughter, the way he used to swing the girls onto his shoulders like they weighed nothing at all. Now, he was a shadow of the man who had built this house with his own hands, and Eleanor could do nothing but watch. Olivia, twelve years old and already too serious for her age, hovered in the doorway, her dark eyes tracking her mother’s every movement. She noticed the way Eleanor’s shoulders sagged when she thought no one was looking, the way she pressed her lips together to keep from sighing.


Olivia had been counting the coins in the jar on the counter for weeks. It was never enough. “Mama,” she said softly, stepping into the kitchen. “I could help more. Mrs. Donnelly said she’d pay me to sweep her store after school.” Eleanor turned, wiping her hands on her apron. The lines around her eyes deepened, but she forced a smile. “You focus on your schoolwork, Liv. That’s your job right now.” Olivia’s jaw tightened. She wanted to argue, to say that school didn’t matter when the cupboards were nearly empty, when her father’s medicine cost more than they could afford. But she bit her tongue. Her mother’s pride was a fragile thing, and she wouldn’t be the one to break it. In the living room, Hannah sat cross-legged on the threadbare rug, carefully stitching a tear in her sister’s doll. At ten, she was quiet, observant, her fingers nimble like her mother’s. Charlotte, eight and restless, paced the room, her socks sliding on the worn floorboards. “When’s dinner?” she asked, though she already knew the answer. “When Mama’s done working,” Hannah murmured without looking up. The twins, Lillian and Emily, were curled together on the old mattress they all shared, whispering secrets under a blanket fort. At six, they didn’t fully understand why their father never came downstairs anymore, why their mother’s hands were always red and raw. But they knew enough to stay out of the way, to tiptoe past their parents’ room where their father’s cough echoed like a ghost. Night fell early in Maplewood, the streetlights flickering to life in the grey dusk. Eleanor finally set aside the last of the laundry, her back aching, her feet numb. She stirred a pot of thin soup on the stove, counting the potatoes—just enough for each of them to have a few bites. Olivia appeared beside her, silently setting the table. Hannah helped without being asked, while Charlotte fidgeted, her energy too big for the cramped kitchen. The twins trailed in, their small hands clutching mismatched spoons. They ate in near-silence, the only sound the scrape of bowls and the distant hum of the furnace fighting against the cold. Eleanor watched them, her chest tight. They were so young. Too young to carry this weight. Later, when the house was still and the girls were asleep—piled together on the mattress like a tangle of limbs and shared warmth—Eleanor stood in the doorway, her fingers pressed to her lips. The moonlight spilled over their faces, so innocent in sleep. Olivia’s arm was thrown protectively over Emily, Hannah’s brow furrowed even in dreams, Charlotte’s wild curls splayed across the pillow. Lillian clutched her sister’s hand, as if afraid to let go. Eleanor whispered into the dark, a promise she would carve into her bones if she had to: No matter what, I will keep us together....