A Million Ways: Stories of Motherhood

By Gina Andrew, Paulette Stout, Annie M. Ballard and 10 more

Mothers are as varied and unique as fingerprints. The 12 stories in this new collection of women's fiction run the scale of human emotions from the triumph of a contemporary mother carving her own path to the heartbreak of a Depression-era woman's sacrifices. They may enrage you, or make you weep or laugh—or miss your mom—but you may also find a mirror for your own experiences.

We welcome you to take a journey through the many dimensions of motherhood in this vibrant tapestry of stories.

• Language: English
• Publisher: G.G. Andrew
• Release date: Apr 7, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215490730

Gina Andrew

A writer of women's fiction, Gina Andrew is fueled by hot tea and good music. She lives outside Houston, Texas, with her husband and two sons, both of whom are autistic and intellectually disabled and provide her with challenges, joy, and laughter each and every day. She also writes romance as G.G. Andrew. In both genres, she loves to play with words, write her way through challenging plots, and watch her characters develop unexpected connections in love and friendship. When she's not penning fiction, Gina is a freelance writer for BookBub who also enjoys yoga, cooking, thrift shopping, genealogy, all things Halloween, and that popcorn smell at the movie theater.

Book preview

A MILLION WAYS: STORIES OF MOTHERHOOD

First edition. April 7, 2023.

A Million Ways copyright © 2023 Writer G.G. Andrew LLC

Soon, Hope copyright © 2023 by Sarah Branson

Mother’s Last Flight copyright © 2023 by Josephine Gentileschi

Merging Identities copyright © 2023 by Lisa Fellinger

Of Fears and Beliefs copyright © by 2023 Priya Gill

A Real Family copyright © 2023 by Annie M. Ballard

Whatever It Takes copyright © 2023 by Ginny Fite

Every Mother’s Peanut Butter copyright © 2023 by Shawna Rodrigues

If I Tell You My Name copyright © 2023 by Pamela Stockwell

A Mother’s Influence copyright © 2023 by Leslie Kain

Motherhood: Double Exposed copyright © 2023 by Paulette Stout

Deconstructing Mom copyright © 2023 by Joanne Kukanza Easley

Everything Left Unsaid copyright © 2023 by Gina Andrew

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or copied in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

ISBN: 979-8215490730

Book cover design: 100 Covers

Editing: Verity Ink Editorial

"There’s no way to be a perfect mother

and a million ways to be a good one."

Jill Churchill

List of Stories

Soon, Hope by Sarah Branson

A midwife finds unexpected hope and healing while attending a difficult birth.

Mother's Last Flight by Josephine Gentileschi

As the Red Army approaches, a Luftwaffe pilot risks everything to fly her baby out of Berlin.

Merging Identities by Lisa Fellinger

A visit with an old friend inspires a young mom to pursue her passion for writing.

Of Fears and Beliefs by Priya Gill

During a cancer diagnosis, an older mom draws strength from her six-year-old son's courage.

A Real Family by Annie M. Ballard

A stepmom connects with a moody preteen girl and realizes the meaning of family.

Whatever It Takes by Ginny Fite

A Depression-era woman in the American South learns that motherhood demands more sacrifice than she ever imagined.

Every Mother's Peanut Butter by Shawna Rodrigues

At a wedding, a photographer bonds with the bride over their shared losses—and peanut butter.

If I Tell You My Name by Pamela Stockwell

A rural girl from Appalachia achieves beyond her station because of her mother's encouragement.

A Mother's Influence by Leslie Kain

After years of silence, a divorced woman reveals a startling truth to her adult daughters.

Motherhood: Double Exposed by Paulette Stout

Late in life, an award-winning photojournalist grapples with her choice to put career ahead of her daughter.

Deconstructing Mom by Joanne Kukanza Easley

A Chicago woman faces the emotional complexity of attending her estranged mother’s funeral.

Everything Left Unsaid by Gina Andrew

While baking from her late mother’s cake recipe, the mom of a nonverbal autistic girl learns that love comes in many languages.

Soon, Hope

Sarah Branson

The insistent dry wail of a newborn drew me through the house. New hallways appeared, turning this way and that with each step I took. The cry continued, growing more demanding, and I tried to move my feet faster but couldn’t. I stumbled slightly and touched the nursery door. The child’s unyielding need pulled at me, and my breasts tingled, knowing I would nurse him soon. I reached for the doorknob and was just about to turn it when the house began to rumble.

I was swiftly pulled from sleep, the brass beehive doorknob fading from my sight as consciousness took over. My heart dropped as the dream grew hazy and evaporated. The phone tucked under my pillow continued its persistent vibration. Squinting, I saw the name Mae Warner on the screen. If it was Mae at this hour, it was likely she was in labor and it wasn’t just a late-night concern. For the first time in four months, the familiar pre-birth rush of adrenaline and excitement flooded through me. Lurking just behind the excitement, though, I could feel my memory of loss. Deep breath, Amne.

I took the breath, clicked on the phone, and said in a low tone, Hi, Mae. What’s up? Tucking the phone between my ear and the pillow, I relaxed for a moment, readying myself for what was likely to come.

The voice that came through the phone was still steady, though there was a hint of breathlessness to it. Hi, Amne. So, finally, something new. I woke up with yet another contraction and went to pee, and when I wiped there was a little blood and then another surge.

How far apart are they? Now fully awake, I stretched my neck and slid out from under the cozy covers, yawning. Luka was softly snoring on his side of the big bed, his muscular brown arm thrown carelessly above his head. The June night was warm enough, but still felt cool on my skin as I slipped, naked, through the dark to the closet and pulled work clothes from the shelf where they had been sitting unused for the past four months.

About every five... wait... here’s another... Mae’s voice caught, and she began a soft moan over the phone. Six minutes after one—I glanced at the time to assess her contractions and bumped into the door of the large closet. Luka grunted just a bit, repositioning himself. I bit my lip and shut the door, turning the knob and releasing it ever so slowly to avoid the disrupting click and allow him to rest undisturbed. In the familiar dark, I found the switch on the small lamp and a pool of light appeared. I put my phone on speaker as I set it down. Tucking my messy mane of curly black hair into a colorful band, I pulled on my lightweight black leggings and my favorite black tank with its built-in bra. I paused as I tugged the leggings up over my flat and empty belly. Grief welled up. I closed my eyes and took a steadying breath. Refocus on the moment. The woman on the far end of the phone breathed heavily. No grunting, though. I would have time to brew a coffee before I left. 

Mae sighed. Okay, that one is over. They’re getting stronger, though, Amne. Her voice had an anxious tone to it. Seven minutes after one—her surge had lasted close to a full minute.

In my best reassuring midwife voice, I said, That’s what you want, Mae. Your body is made for this. You’ve done this before, and you’ve been ready for three weeks for this baby to appear. Now get something to drink that has calories and set out your birth kit. I’m only two surges away from your place. Is the baby wiggling? Any water leaking?

Mae’s voice dropped to a whisper, and her breath increased just a bit, interspersed with a few small grunts and groans. No water yet. And baby is moving some, mostly just after a surge. I smiled at the telltale sounds of a heavily pregnant woman on the move. She must have been walking to her kitchen to get a drink as instructed and was being careful not to wake her older children.

Grabbing my pink cardigan and work shoes, I padded to my own kitchen, passing the unused nursery’s closed door, its brass beehive doorknob calling me. I stared for a moment and then turned away. Okay, Mae. I’m going to leave in just a few minutes. Be sure your door is unlocked. I’ll be there before you know it, and I’ll call Erin as well.

Thanks, Amne. See you soon, Mae said. Her voice underlined the word soon.

Yes, soon, I repeated, and Mae clicked off the call.

I turned the heat on under the kettle and scooped some coffee into the brew cup Luka had, as usual, set up for me the night before with a filter. Waiting for the water to heat, I thought about the word. Soon. Mamas-to-be loved that word. When will I feel movement? When will the baby come? When will I be ready to push? When will my bleeding stop? And of course—when will you be here? To respond with soon to all these not only soothed my worried mamas, but it was also true. Of course, I thought with a half-smile, soon for the midwife is different from soon for someone carrying a full-term child ready to come earthside. My heart caught as I realized how recently I had been the one thinking soon. A spasm of grief ran through me. I’d give anything to go back to the days before my son stopped his wiggles inside me. The buildup of a grief storm began, and it took a huge effort on my part to batten down my hatches and sail clear of it. No, I had work to do. I could indulge myself later.

I dialed my partner, who picked up at the start of the second ring.

Hey, lovely. Who we got? Erin’s voice was hoarse but warm.

Mae Warner. 

Finally! Third baby. We’ll either be home for breakfast or be there all day. Erin’s chuckle came through the phone. Think I have time to shower?

I shook my head, though Erin couldn’t see me. The hot water cascaded over the grounds, releasing the rich, earthy smell of the midwives’ nectar. Nope. Surges are every five. I’m out the door as soon as this coffee finishes.

Got it. I’ll pump when I get there. She paused. You ready for this, Amne? Her voice held concern enveloped in love.

I swallowed and gripped the counter. I have to go back to work eventually, Erin. There has to be a first birth... after.

Her tone was warm as she said, I’m here for you, friend. See you in a bit. 

I managed a smile. See you. It was a gift beyond measure to have a partner and friend who knew me so well. I clicked off my phone and slid it into my pocket.

Luka’s voice came from the kitchen door. You got a call? You should’ve woken me. I always get your coffee.

He stood in the kitchen door, shirtless and in his night shorts. Even with the additional lines our grief had drawn next to his eyes, he was still the handsomest man I knew. His deep-brown skin, always two shades darker than mine, was starting to color on his arms, face, and neck from the early summer sun to the same shade as my coffee. Love for this man filled my heart. You have been taking care of me for months. I wanted to let you sleep after keeping you up so late last night.

Luka came over and wrapped his strong arms around me, pulling me close to his broad chest that had just the right amount of curly black hair across it. I had spent many happy hours snuggled there over the years, and it had been my refuge the past few months when I was so broken and needed comfort. I breathed in his scent and blinked to keep the tears away.

His voice rumbled in my ear. You are so strong and so amazing, Amne. You can do this. But you need this. He slipped something over my head. I gave a shaky gasp as I looked down at the necklace with the stone fashioned in the shape of a pregnant torso as it hung on its black cord against my tank. It was my signature piece. Luka had given it to me when I finished my midwifery apprenticeship. I had worn it to every birth since. In the before times, I had joked I couldn’t properly work without it. Since the day I’d realized Sajan had stopped his normally strong movements, it had hung on the wall untouched, unbearable. But Luka was right; it was time to wear it again.

He kissed my hair as I pulled back and looked into his large, soft eyes. I know. I can do this. In the four years I’d been a midwife, I’d had over a hundred babies slip into my hands, including our sweet Sajan. It’s just... it’s going to be hard. A lump thickened in my throat and tears burned the edges of my eyes as the storm clouds began to build again on the horizon.

Luka’s eyes glistened as well, and his brows pulled together as his face became serious. It’s like you said last night: the world and our history in it are now split into before him and after. His warm voice had a slight tremor to it.

I nodded and rubbed the belly of my necklace as if it were a talisman. Luka took a deep breath and then released me from his arms, turning to open the icebox and breathing out audibly. Let’s get you a snack to take. He pulled out the cheddar cheese and lovingly sliced exactly five pieces, knowing that was just how many I liked, and wrapped them in a piece of wax-covered cloth. His hand hovered over the basket that held fruit as he carefully selected the two best apples and put them in a bag with the cheese. Here. He stretched toward me. I took the bag as he leaned in and we shared a small kiss. A sigh of love escaped from my throat as I turned to leave.

We walked out into the night, moonlight illuminating our path. The late-night breeze caught my dark curls, cooling my face. The farm was quiet at this time of night with no chickens squawking or goats bleating, though in the distance the call of a night-heron came up from the swampy part of the creek that ran through our property. Luka carried my coffee, and after I checked that my birth bag was in its spot in the back of my little vehicle, I took it from him, sliding into my seat and settling the cup into its holder. I turned and looked up at him. I’ll be back... sometime.

He reached through the open window and cupped my cheek, leaning in for another gentle kiss. Sometime. He repeated another indefinite midwives often used.

Then he stepped back, smiled his glorious smile, and lifted his hand as I headed down our road. He said just loud enough for me to hear, Drive carefully, Amne. There was a pause. Think about trying again, love.

That last sentence pierced my chest like an arrow, but still, I waved, nodding noncommittally. Then I was on the road, and Luka’s handsome form faded into the night as my little car bumped along the gravel, taking the light with it.

The Warners’ property was just a few kilometers down the road from our farm, but it was far grander than our little place. It sat on an established vineyard that had been around as long as I, or anyone I knew, could remember. I wended my way deeper into the property, past the oldest house in District Seven, a grand three-story place with a big front porch. Mae had told me her husband’s grandparents built it, planting the grape vines they collected from the Old Country and nurtured while they were at sea. When they arrived on the southeast end of Bosch Island, they settled the slips into the rich soil. The plants flourished, and the Warners gave birth to not only five children but also the finest vineyard for thousands of kilometers.

Only a bit farther into the vineyard was Mae and Stephen’s place. The outside light was on, and from the second floor, the soft yellow glow of a lamp shone from their bedroom. I pulled into the drive and went to open the back as Erin drove up and parked neatly beside me.

How can you look so alert at half-past one? She grinned at me as she pulled out her own midwife bag. I didn’t get to sleep until almost eleven o’clock. The baby... She looked at me, stricken. Shit, Amne, I’m sorry.

I shrugged and tried to look casual. You can talk about Connie, Erin. I’m sure she’s a sweetheart. I should be apologizing to you since I haven’t been by to meet her. Little Constance had been born pink and healthy only a few weeks after my Sajan, gray and silent, had slipped from my body.

Hardly. You take all the time you need. And even if you haven’t met her, you have been part of her life with the milk you sent over. It helped so much to have it when she wasn’t gaining. I can’t thank you enough. Erin flipped her light-brown waves back and threw her arms around me. She hugged me, the firmness of her full and life-nurturing breasts pressing into my now-empty ones. I declined the envious feelings that came knocking.

Erin and I had trained with Roberta, the most skilled midwife in District Seven, if not all of Bosch. We had learned together and experienced each other’s first catches, repairs, bleeds, and resuscitations. We spent so many hours together poring through our assigned readings, writing papers, and practicing our hand skills that we reached a point of practically reading each other’s thoughts. By the time we were halfway through training, it was clear we would someday be partners with our skills and dispositions complementing each other so well. Erin was far better at stitching than me, but I had developed a talent for repositioning babies who stubbornly wanted to come out in a more difficult position. At prenatal visits and births, we moved in a familiar dance, each taking whatever task and embracing whatever role was needed.

We moved apart, and I looked at this woman I loved. Only Luka and I were closer. Let’s go catch a baby, I whispered and gave what I hoped was a hopeful smile and not a fearful grimace.

THE SUNRISE WAS SHOOTING glorious shades of pink and orange over the vineyard from Mae’s bedroom window. Mae was draped over the shoulders of Stephen, her husband, as she rocked her hips back and forth and moaned softly with a contraction. A moment ago, I had been kneeling next to them and listening to the robust and rapid cadence of her baby’s heartbeat. The heart rate was right in the 130s. It was reassuring. And strong. And normal. Each time I heard it, my heart swelled with joy and simultaneously rent with pain.

Through the window, the tree line and the vines were all green and lush in the golden light of early morning. A warm breeze ruffled the blue gingham curtains, but it felt chill to me. As I shivered, I was transported back to the chill of that February morning when the snow was still piled high against the house and the fences, and the air was sharp and carried a cold bite. In that time, as the sunrise threw streams of thin winter light onto my face, pulling me from a deep sleep, I immediately knew something was wrong. My baby was due any day and would usually wake me well before the sun with rolls and punches to my bladder. But that morning, I slept soundly, because there was only stillness. I called Erin to come over with Roberta, who was going to take over our practice temporarily while we were both out on leave. Erin and I hadn’t intended to be pregnant at the same time, but when we’d discovered our babies would be only a few weeks apart, we laughed and said that sometimes things don’t go as planned. I hadn’t realized how true and how devastating that would be.

On that icy winter morning as the sun came fully up, I’d woken Luka and told him my concern. He simply nodded, but he tensed, and my own fear was reflected in his eyes. Wrapped in a robe that could no longer fully cover my belly, I rose and did as I always told my clients: eat something, drink something, lie down on my side and count. Nothing. I knew, but I kept hoping. Erin and Roberta arrived, and both searched for that familiar thrumming of a heartbeat. I kept hoping. Maybe the doppler was broken. Maybe Roberta, who was quite a bit older, had started to lose her touch. Maybe. Maybe.

I knew the baby was gone before they’d said it was. I knew when I went into the hospital for a doctor to scan and confirm it was true. I knew as Luka and I held each other and wept. But somehow, a tiny gleam of hope stayed in my heart.

Maybe they were wrong. Maybe the baby was just sitting in a funny way. Maybe it would be okay. Maybe, like soon, was another word to hang hope on. Hope could be a fire that sustained us when the world was cold and cruel, but false hope was the cruelest thing of all.

My thoughts of that February morning were interrupted as Mae’s voice rose higher with her next contraction and ended with a guttural groan. Not quite a push, but getting closer. Erin and I were reflexively drawn to her.

Mae, take a sip of this, Erin said in a low, calm voice as she proffered a glass of watered-down juice. Mae obediently sipped and then returned to her inward world of swaying and breathing and waiting for the next wave.

I smoothed her dark curls and used a cool washcloth to wipe the sweat that trickled from her hairline. Stephen was stoically standing with his arms supporting his petite-framed wife whose belly was all baby and a good-sized one at that. I grabbed the juice from where Erin had set it on the table and offered him a sip, which he gratefully took. Do you need a toilet break, Stephen? I offered. He nodded, and I took his place, draping Mae’s arms around my shoulders to release him.

I’ll check on my mother and the boys as well, he said in his deep voice, and slipped out the bedroom door.

Mae moaned with another surge, and I found myself in two places—holding her and feeling Luka hold me in February