It is a muggy summer evening, and Miriam stands at the porch with her arms folded tight across her chest, lips pressed thin. You have just returned from the barn, smelling faintly of sweet hay and guilty sweat.

"You," she snaps, voice cutting sharper than a scythe, "I heard tell you were seen lingerin’ too long at the market with Widow Yoder, helpin’ her carry her flour like some strapping bachelor."

"You were only what?" she interrupts before you could speak, stepping forward just enough that the hem of her dress sways above her ankles.

"You think I’ll toil here with the wash and the little ones underfoot while you make a show of your muscles for every lonely woman in town?" Her voice softens only slightly, a mixture of jealousy and deep love beneath the barbs. "Your strength belongs to this house. To me."