Frieda couldn’t help that they were short on bread. She couldn’t help a lot of things. She couldn’t help that Otto wasn’t there to give their children goodnight bear hugs, and she couldn’t help that Santa was coming up short this year. They were fortunate enough to live far enough away from the city that they didn’t have to fret too much over bombings, but Frieda still awoke in a cold sweat with the rumble of the planes echoing in her ears.  
As much as she knew she couldn’t help these things, her children did not. Gerhard was a little more aware, seeing as he was nearly thirteen now. Young Brigitte, on the other hand, wore Frieda’s patience down like flame on a wax candle. All she cared about were the new ribbons her friend’s grandfather had fetched her all the way from Russia, how exquisite was that? She wanted ribbons too, Mama! And why did they have to go hide out in the cellar in the middle of the night? She was just having a wonderful dream about cake! How she adored strawberry cake. And as an eight-year-old, she reminded Frieda constantly, she needed her beauty sleep.  
Every night, Frieda kissed the two on the forehead and promised that Papa would be home soon. She had no way of knowing this, of course, the mail was ever so slow, and Otto was so busy on the front lines that Frieda expected that he barely had any time for writing home. With time, though, she came to believe it, too. This promise kept them going. It got them out of bed in the morning and through their daily routine. They all yearned for one thing: for it to be true. 
One day, Brigitte fell ill. Funny, she’d always been the one with the better immune system compared to her brother. No matter, the poor thing still had a terrible fever and didn’t say a word other than a tired mumble upon being woken up.  It was a cloudy day, with rain trickling down the buildings onto the streets and darkening its stones with every drop. Gerhard went out to play with his mates as usual- assuring Frieda that he would wear his jacket as not to catch a cold and be bedridden as well as his sister- while Frieda tended to Brigitte. 
While preparing lunch, Frieda heard a call come from Brigitte’s room. Now what did she need now? She was supposed to be napping. That child could never simply listen, could she? Frieda set down her knife and moved to wear she could see her daughter. 
“What, sweetheart?” She asked, wiping her hands on her apron. 
Brigitte’s voice was hoarse while her words were clear and concise. “Papa’s here.”  
Frieda blinked in surprise. “Come again?” 
“Papa’s here.” 
Whatever Frieda had expected to hear Brigitte say, that was certainly not it. Oh, dear, the fever must have been worse than she thought! Moving quickly to fluff Brigitte’s pillow, she came up with the best response she could muster. 
“No,” she murmured. “I’m afraid that Papa is still away. We’ll keep praying and hope that he comes home soon, alright?” 
Though Brigitte persisted in her statement, Frieda disregarded it and continued with her day. Her poor, sweet baby was having delusions. 
When Gerhard heard Brigitte’s claim, he laughed in her face. He came chuckling to his mother to report what was so comical. 
“D’you hear her, Mama? She’s gone mad!” He turned red from laughter. 
Frieda shook her head. Why must he be so lacking in compassion?  
“You must grant your sister some kindness,” She said. ”Besides, I think mad’s a bit extreme, don’t you?” 
 She didn’t even bother to look up from her dress mending. With all that was going on in in the world, there was little use to worry about such trivial things as her son’s word choice. Siblings would be siblings, and Gerhard was going through that quite mean phase children tend to enjoy. 
“Fine.” Gerhard moved to exit the room. “Bonkers, then.” 
All in good time, Brigitte’s fever subsided, and Gerhard’s taunting came to cease. The family returned to their normal schedule within a few days, Frieda both reveling in and despising the quiet of her home. 
At random, she would have spells as if someone had walked over her grave. Cold shivers and buttery fingers made her a terrible fright, but fortunately, they were not entertaining at a time like this and thus, there was nobody besides the children to see her tremors. 
At dinner one dark night, Gerhard took notice. He was pushing around his steamed carrots and frankly, in Frieda’s eyes, looking for any excuse not to eat them. 
“Mama.” He tilted his head. “You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.” 
Brigitte interrupted, a nasty habit of hers. “Perhaps she has. I have.” 
This, of course, made Gerhard dissolve into a fit of giggles. He pushed away his plate as if this was all just too laughable to even think about eating. 
“It’s true!” Brigitte glared at her brother. “I’ve seen Papa, he’s sitting right there!” 
It was true that where she pointed was where Otto normally sat, but Frieda was not one for superstition.  
She set down her fork with a clang. “Now, Brigitte. I won’t have any of that talk! Especially during times like these.”  
“But Mama, it’s true!” Brigitte whined. “Papa has died and now he’s returned home to protect us! He healed me, I’m truthing!”  
“You’re telling the truth,” Frieda corrected. “And the only thing your father is protecting is his country.” 
At this, Gerhard stopped his laughing and grew cross with Brigitte. He took great pride in his father, living vicariously through the man he aspired to be. He thought himself the man of the house in Otto’s absence. 
“Papa’s a hero, Brigitte,” he told her. “Not that you would know, of course, being a girl.” 
Brigitte jumped up from her seat to take a swing at her brother not a moment before Frieda pulled them apart.  
“That is enough!” She exclaimed. “We have plenty of fighting currently, we don’t need your contributions. Gerhard, if your father was here, he would be quite disappointed in you. Apologize to your sister.” 
Rolling his eyes, Gerhard conceded. Frieda could have sworn that he took on the pride of both Otto and himself. Or at least double what a boy his age should have. Otto has always been modest. Still, it was at least another week before he poked at Brigitte again. 
Frieda was listening intently to the radio broadcast. Missing in action, presumed dead. Discharged on wound. Missing. Dismissed. Missing. She twisted her wedding ring so tight that she felt it might cut off her circulation and still couldn’t be bothered to care.  
Gerhard burst in through the back door, clearly having come running. His hair was a dreadful mess, and though his shirt was sweaty, it showed no sign of mud, which was the usual culprit of these such encounters.  
“She’s raving again, Mama!” He panted.  
Frieda silenced the radio just as Brigitte entered the house as well. There was a reason she tuned in when they were elsewhere. 
“Nu-uh!” Brigitte cried. “I told you! Papa healed me! He wants you to stop listening, Mama. He’s not on there. He’s here!”  
Frieda rubbed her temples. How much longer was this nonsense going to drag out? They all missed Otto, and this was certainly not helping her nerves. 
“Brigitte, sweetheart, why don’t you go lie down?” She suggested, knitting her eyebrows together. “Your fever must still be ailing you.” 
If she knew anything about Brigitte, it was that she was honest. Sometimes to a fault. Not to mention that she wouldn’t be cruel enough to lie about her father’s return. And still, there is no way Otto could truly be home. For one thing, he would have come to see his family. That’s first and foremost. He wouldn’t be hiding so that only Brigitte could see him, even if that were possible. And for another thing, the war was still in full swing. A spry, strong man like him was needed on the front. They had got no notice of him having leave recently. Really, they were lucky that Gerhard wasn’t a few years older or he might have been drafted as well. Frieda repeated this to herself. They were lucky. Otto was fine. Otto would come home.  
Even so, it was Brigitte’s voice that kept Frieda up at night, her eyes unblinking at the ceiling of her once shared bedroom.  
A storm raged outside, the wind and rain in a war of their own. Was there a mother cloud out there alone like her? Did she too yearn for her husband? Did she also think of nothing but his return and refuse to give in to the chances? He could have disappeared, struck by a lightning bolt or blown by the breeze. The mother cloud could wait and wait, but would her husband come home?  
On her nightstand was a picture from her wedding day. Otto was a strapping young man with the sort of build earned through generations of hard labor on the land. He had those sparkling green eyes and blond hair to match his daughter’s. God, Frieda loved him. She’d always heard of heartache, but now the physical pain in her chest caused by the coldness of the place in the bed behind her welled tears up in her eyes. He couldn’t be gone. He had so much life to live.  
Not from the photograph, but from knowing him did she see his immense patience, his infatuation with the children, his aptitude for numbers. It was without a conscious thought that she reached out to touch his smiling face. 
Gerhard appeared in the doorway of her bedroom despite the hour. Never mind that, Frieda told herself. The storm must have woken him. 
He climbed into her bed and wrapped his arms around his mother. As she pet his head in the darkness, Frieda began to sob. 
Gerhard knew. She had seen it in his eyes. Brigitte, oh sweet Brigitte, had been the first to believe. She, for whatever reason, sensed this tragedy and tried to convey her message. 
A knock came from the front door. Frieda kissed Gerhard’s head.  
Putting a robe on, she answered to find a man with crumbs in his mustache. He was in a military uniform, clutching both his hat and a letter. Frieda saw these things, and from the latter she knew his reason for arrival. 
“Mrs. Adell?” His voice was like tires on gravel. It took all of Frieda’s strength to give a miserable nod. 
She knew he was required to say it quickly and bluntly so that she wouldn’t get her hopes up. She knew this, and she still hated him. She hated him for bringing her the dreaded news to make her fall to her knees without feeling a thing besides the gaping pain in her chest. He wasn’t the one who had to live with this. He got to move on. She was one with the clouds: a swirling vortex of tears to mourn what has been lost. And yet, amidst this, the eye of the storm was peace.  
Hadn’t she known? Hadn’t they all known? It was acceptance they needed. Otto— her beloved Otto— would remain no longer as a person, but as a spirit and a memory.  
When the sun came up, the family smiled at Papa’s angel.