Barefoot Mornings

Hazel Mae believed even broken houses could have souls. She felt it in the floorboards when they groaned beneath her bare feet, in the thin walls that shivered with every gust of wind. Sometimes she pressed her ear against the plaster and swore she could hear it whispering—like the house was trying to tell her something the grown-ups never would.

Footsteps echoed outside her door. Hazel rolled onto her side, already knowing her little brother’s bed would be empty. Papa must have pulled Tommy up before dawn.

The blankets were still tousled, pillow half-hanging from the frame. Mama wouldn’t like that.

Hazel swung her legs over the edge of the bed, her toes curling against the scarred wood floor. She hurried to Tommy’s bed and smoothed the patchwork quilt, tucking the pillow back in place. Her hand lingered on a faded square of floral fabric. She knew that dress. One of Mama’s favorites. Hazel remembered the day Mama stopped wearing it—her chest tightened as the memory of a baby lost too soon surfaced. She pushed it down, hard.

She went back to her own bed and began tucking in the sheet.

“Hazel Mae!” her mother’s voice cut through the hall, stern but not quite angry. Hazel rushed to obey.

Her bare feet pattered across the rough-sanded boards. “Coming!” she called.

Mama rarely used her full name. Mae, that’s what everyone called her. Once, when she was little, Mama had called her Maybie. Her baby Maybie. That was before Eli. Before Mama grew heavier in the eyes and shoulders. Back when she seemed freer.

Mae rushed around the corner, the heat of the kitchen hitting her full in the face. Summer made the room unbearable; the stove’s fire bled into the air until it hung heavy, almost suffocating.

Her mother was bent over the oven, reaching for a pan of biscuits. Sweat trickled down her neck, dampening the loose curls escaping from her haphazard bun.

“I’m here, Mama,” Mae blurted, eager to prove she hadn’t dawdled.

Mama set the pan on the counter and tucked a rag beneath it. Without glancing up, she issued her instructions. “Find me the jar of bacon grease and a spoon.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Mae darted across the room and grabbed the mason jar from its chipped-paint perch on the shelf.

Mama’s biscuits were famous in their little world, and Mae was one of the few who knew why. Bacon grease.

They didn’t have pork often, but when they did, Mae scraped every drop of fat into that jar. Fresh grease melted the old, and she’d swirl it smooth before setting it back in place.

Now she handed it over, watching as Mama scooped a glossy spoonful onto each golden biscuit.

“Now, Mae,” Mama said, her voice already carrying the weight of the day, “Tommy and Papa will be back from the fields soon. Go on and collect some eggs. Pull some water, too.”

“Yes, Mama.”

Mae slipped out of the suffocating heat into the cool morning air. Sunlight filtered through the thick treeline, painting narrow paths across the dirt yard. The ground was still cool beneath her feet, not yet scalded by the rising sun.

Papa had taken Tommy to the fields, but he’d let the hens out first. The few they owned scratched idly at the dirt, searching for worms and scraps.

Mae reached into the first nesting box and sighed when her fingers met only straw. Old Nellie, their biggest hen, had been laying less and less. One less egg meant she or Tommy would have to go without.

In the end she gathered three eggs. Two would go to Papa, one to Mama. She and Tommy would make do with biscuits and plain grits. Still, she reminded herself, a full belly before school was something to be grateful for. She couldn’t always count on that.

She hurried back across the yard, careful not to jostle the eggs. The kitchen heat washed over her again as she pushed open the door. “I got three of ’em, Mama.”

Her mother looked up and gave her a rare, genuine smile — one Mae hadn’t seen in nearly a year. “Thank you, Maybie.”

A flush crept up Mae’s cheeks at the old pet name. “I’m going to get dressed,” she said quickly, cutting across the kitchen toward her room.

There she pulled open a drawer and lifted out one of her school dresses, smoothing the wrinkles as she laid it across the bed. She sighed at the thinning fabric, her fingers tracing the place where it had begun to wear through. Tugging at a loose thread had only made it worse — a small hole now forming. Maybe Mama wouldn’t notice. Sometimes the patch made things worse, like a badge announcing what everyone already knew: they were poor.

Once the dress looked passably smoothed, she tugged it over her head, pulling at the hips until the hem fell just above her knee. Her eyes searched the room for her brush, spotting it on the dresser. It was one of the nicest things she owned, a Christmas gift from Papa.

The bristles glided through her shiny blonde hair. When the tangles were gone, she worked it into a braid and tossed it neatly over her shoulder.

From down the hall came the thump and scrape of chairs against the floor — all she needed to hear to know breakfast was ready. She hurried back toward the kitchen.

Papa sat at the table, muddy boots still on his feet. Mama would scold him later for the mess.

Tommy tapped a rhythm with his spoon, the clinking filling the silence that hung over the room. Silence, except for the muttering.

Mae remembered when mornings brimmed with hymns — Mama’s voice warm and steady, sometimes humming, sometimes singing, always familiar. Comforting. But that music had faded. In its place came the muttering.

At first Mae thought Mama was speaking to one of them, but the words were never clear — low mumbles that slipped past meaning.

If Papa noticed, he never said. He left Mama to her work, and did the same.

Still, the muttering unsettled Mae.

“Tommy!” Mama snapped. “Stop that noise!”

Her voice was sharp, colder than Mae ever remembered.

Tommy’s eyes flicked to Mae, wide with confusion. His spoon dropped against the table with a clatter. For a moment Mae thought their mother might shout again, but instead Mama turned back to her muttering, carrying plates to the table as if nothing had happened.

They ate in near silence, everyone careful with their clinking spoons and scraping forks. Papa filled the quiet with talk of a new piece of farm equipment the family down the road had bought, his voice steady, practical. Mama nodded, even gave the right replies, but Mae saw her eyes drifting — not to Papa, not to Tommy or the biscuits cooling on the counter, but to a space just over Papa’s shoulder. A place Mae couldn’t see.

When the last bite was gone, Mae rose and began stacking the dishes. The rhythm of clearing, rinsing, and scrubbing steadied her hands, even as unease gnawed at her chest. Mama moved around the kitchen as if in a fog, still mumbling to herself, while Papa tugged on his jacket and told Tommy not to dawdle.

The water in the basin was already cooling by the time Mae set the last plate to dry. She wiped her damp hands on her skirt and glanced at the doorway where Tommy was waiting, hair sticking up at odd angles, shirt half-buttoned.

“C’mon, Mae,” he urged.

She gave one last look toward Mama. Her mother had stopped at the window, staring out at the yard though nothing moved beyond the glass. Mae wanted to ask her what she saw, but the question lodged in her throat.

Instead, she slipped her schoolbooks under her arm and joined Tommy. Together they stepped out into the morning air, the door creaking shut behind them. The world outside felt lighter, cooler, even with the sun climbing higher — as if the weight of the kitchen stayed behind with Mama’s murmurs.

Hazel and Tommy fell into step together, the worn path toward the schoolhouse stretching ahead through fields already humming with cicadas.

Tommy kicked a rock down the road, chasing after it with his bare feet. “Bet I can keep it going all the way to the creek,” he boasted.

Hazel laughed and darted forward, sending the rock skittering into the weeds. “Not anymore, you can’t.”

He gave her a shove, not hard enough to hurt, and they both broke into giggles that carried down the empty road. For a while, it was easy to forget the muttering in the kitchen, easy to forget the way Mama’s eyes had wandered past them as though she saw something else entirely.

By the time they reached the bend where Clara Jane usually joined them, Hazel’s braid was loose and her cheeks were warm. Clara came running from her house, curls bouncing, a strip of red ribbon in her hand. She wore the other half tied in her own hair, one end hanging shorter than the other.

“I got something for you,” Clara said, breathless with excitement. She reached up and tied the scrap into Hazel’s braid. The bow was lopsided, hardly noticeable, but Hazel smoothed it with her fingers like it was fine silk.

“Now we match,” Clara whispered, grinning.

Hazel couldn’t stop smiling. It didn’t matter that Clara’s bow was bigger, brighter. For a moment, with the ribbon trailing against her shoulder, Hazel felt seen—like she belonged.

Tommy caught up to them, his hair sticking up where the morning wind had teased it loose. He eyed the ribbon in Hazel’s braid and gave a lopsided grin.

“Clara Jane, you gave her the good half. You’re stuck with the stubby one now.”

Clara wrinkled her nose at him. “Doesn’t matter. We still match.”

“Looks silly,” Tommy said, though the sparkle in his eyes gave him away.

Hazel elbowed him lightly. “You’re just jealous you don’t have a bow.”

He made a show of pretending to toss his hair over his shoulder, strutting down the path until all three of them dissolved into laughter. Clara clutched Hazel’s hand to steady herself, their giggles carrying across the yard.

For a moment it felt like any other morning — dust on their ankles, sun on their faces, and Tommy teasing the girls just enough to make them laugh harder.

By the time they reached the schoolyard fence, Hazel’s chest ached from the running and laughing. It almost drowned out the weight of the stares, the way voices hushed when they passed. Almost.

She’d learned not to look too closely.

Still, words slipped through: he was crazy…the hospital… didn’t come home.

The sound of it pricked at her like burrs catching her hem. Hazel’s cheeks burned, but she lifted her chin and pretended she hadn’t heard. Clara’s hand was warm in hers, steady as an anchor.

“C’mon,” Hazel whispered, tugging Clara toward the steps.

They joined the line filing into the schoolhouse, Clara’s ribbon trailing bright in the sun. Hazel didn’t look back, though the laughter still followed her.