An Empty Cup(2)

Last night, as she did on most nights, she had retired early, putting the children to bed before retreating to the bedroom that she and Timothy shared. She read by her lantern light for a while, preferring the soft flickering of the kerosene lamp to the harsh brightness of the battery-operated lights that more and more Amish families were now using. The gentle shadows that danced on the pale-blue walls helped her relax, and after reading two pages of her devotional, she set the book on her nightstand and blew out the lantern’s flame.

She awoke alone.

Again.

She stole quietly into the kitchen, suspecting that she would find Timothy there, still in his clothes and fast asleep. Before she struck a match to light the propane lantern over the kitchen table, she looked at the large sunroom that opened to the kitchen. Sure enough, she saw his form sprawled out on the sofa along the back wall. He was still wearing his work clothes from the previous day, and Rosanna suspected he wouldn’t change. Again.

She found him there most mornings. It was a routine that was becoming increasingly difficult to live with. She knew divorce was not an option, but she secretly thought about it from time to time.

Now was one of those times.

“There’s no coffee brewing!” Timothy said, running his hand through his uneven dark hair. He had insisted she cut it last weekend, even though he had refused to sharpen the scissors. Luckily, he hadn’t noticed—or simply didn’t care—that the haircut was lopsided and his bangs were cut on a diagonal. He stood in the doorway, holding it open with his arm as he glared at her. “Is it too much to ask for coffee when I wake up?”

Rosanna dipped her head in silent acquiescence as she hurried past him. “I’m sorry,” she said quietly.

“And don’t burn it today,” he grumbled. “If that’s at all possible.”

The criticism would have stung if she weren’t so used to it. She had heard the complaints a hundred times: she couldn’t cook, she couldn’t sew, she couldn’t even make a good cup of coffee. The list of her flaws seemed endless when Timothy began criticizing her.

She wished she could lash out at him and point out that his constant criticism and belittling of her was driving a huge wedge between them. And it was affecting the children, too. They were beginning to see what was happening, especially Aaron, who had just turned thirteen.

It was a given that Timothy favored Aaron over Cate. After all, he hadn’t wanted a little girl. He’d wanted a farm full of boys. When Cate arrived, his reaction had been astonishing: “I didn’t know I was capable of making girl babies.” And then he’d left Rosanna’s bedside, never even pausing to hold his newborn daughter.

At nine years of age, Cate seemed immune to her father’s constant rejection. She preferred being with Rosanna anyway. Whether Cate was clinging to Rosanna’s dress or sitting on her lap, she didn’t seem to notice that her father paid no attention to her. However, every time Rosanna heard Timothy reference their daughter as “it” or “that thing,” it felt like a knife into her heart.

Initially, Aaron had been oblivious to the disparity in their treatment and to his father’s behavior. He delighted in Timothy’s attention. But more and more, Aaron was noticing his father’s erratic behavior in the evenings as well as his extreme grouchiness in the mornings. Coupled with his puffy face and bloodshot eyes, there was no denying the fact that Timothy Zook had a problem, even if he felt that it was under control.

“Moderation,” he had told Rosanna one day. “Even Jesus drank wine.” He had tried to make light of the situation. “Everything in moderation. It’s fine.”

But it wasn’t fine. Not by a long stretch of the imagination.

As she stood at the stove, turning on the gas so that she could heat the water for his coffee, she realized that moderation was something Timothy might preach but demonstrated no ability to practice. And she wasn’t certain how much more of his “moderation” she could take.




Timothy was seated at the head of the table drinking his cup of coffee when Aaron bounded down the stairs. At thirteen their son was the spitting image of his father. His curly brown hair flopped over his greenish-blue eyes, and he brushed it aside as he stumbled over the last step.

“Easy there, Aaron,” Timothy said, his voice tense. “Where’s the fire anyway?”

“Thought I was late for chores!” Aaron grinned at his mother as he took his place at the table, sliding onto the bench and reaching for the glass of water by his plate. “Reckon not if you aren’t angry.”

Rosanna glanced at the clock. It was almost seven. The cows should have been milked much earlier. They needed to be milked on a regular schedule. Otherwise they produced less milk, and there was the risk that the older ones might turn sour. Rosanna didn’t like it when Timothy overslept and got a late start on his chores. These days, it was happening more and more frequently.