Sundown

Her hands were dishwater worn and caked with flour, which she wiped across her tattered housecoat. She put her hands on her hips as if doing so exhausted her and sighed. The children would be home soon and she’d wanted to surprise them, but the summer heat had slowed her down and the bread had taken longer than usual to rise. She had wanted to give them warm bread and honey when they’d returned home from a day of mischief and fishing. Instead, she would simply hug them and playfully push them away, before cleaning the still-breathing fish with sharpened knives.