Chapter 1: The Bargain for Legacy

Nathaniel Whitmore, the seventh son of the Whitmore family, had zero interest in marriage. His mind was set on chasing after something greater—some kind of spiritual awakening.

It wasn’t just a phase, either. Nathaniel had always been the sort to disappear into the woods for days, returning with wild stories about the sunrise, or raving about some book he’d just finished. The rest of the Whitmores would shake their heads. But Mrs. Whitmore? That was another story. She worried. She wanted a grandchild more than anything, and it was starting to show in the way she eyed every young woman in town.

Mrs. Whitmore, desperate for a grandchild, hired me—the county clerk’s daughter—to move right into their house.

It was the sort of thing folks in Maple Heights whispered about at the diner: hiring a girl from a good family just to make sure the Whitmore name didn’t die out with Nathaniel. My mother called it a blessing. My older sisters called it a gamble. Me? I called it a chance to finally get out from under my parents’ roof.

"As long as you give me a grandson, you can go wherever you want, searching for your own path!"

She said it with a determined glint in her eye—the kind that meant she’d already made up her mind. It was both a promise and a bargain, and I could feel the weight of it settle on my shoulders even then.

A year later, the eldest son and eldest daughter were born.

The Whitmore house was filled with the sound of baby cries and lullabies, and Mrs. Whitmore’s friends started dropping by more often, bearing casseroles and baby blankets. The neighbors would smile knowingly as they passed by, seeing the strollers lined up on the porch.

Two years after that, the second son arrived.

This time, Mrs. Whitmore threw a little party—just family and close friends, with barbecue out back and lemonade on the porch. Nathaniel tried to sneak away for a walk in the woods, but his mother caught him and handed him the new baby instead.

Three years later, twin daughters came into the world.

At this point, the house was practically bursting. There were toys everywhere—blocks underfoot, dolls in the hallway, and crayon drawings taped to the fridge. The Whitmore family photo wall kept growing, frame by frame, until it nearly wrapped around the whole living room.

Mrs. Whitmore held one child in her arms, two riding on her shoulders, and another clinging to her leg. She was both satisfied and exhausted. Turning her head, she looked at Nathaniel, who—of all things—was helping shape my eyebrows. Don’t ask.

She balanced a toddler on her hip and called out with mock exasperation, "Aren’t you supposed to be off on your spiritual journey? Why are you still here? There’s hardly any room left in this house!" The chaos was real: toys flying, kids giggling, and Mrs. Whitmore still running the show.

My name is Grace Wilkins, daughter of a county clerk.

I’d always thought my life would be simple. School. Chores. Maybe a job at the library or the post office. Never in a million years did I think I’d end up in a house as big as the Whitmores’—let alone married to someone like Nathaniel. But life has a way of surprising you.

Though my father’s position wasn’t high and he wasn’t exactly remarkable, I had eight siblings. Our house was always noisy and full of laughter.

We lived in a creaky old farmhouse just outside of town. The floors groaned underfoot. The kitchen always smelled like bread. Every night, there was a line for the bathroom. Every morning, a mad scramble for the last piece of toast.

My mom was known in Maple Heights for her good fortune—she had her parents, siblings, a husband, sons, and daughters. Whenever friends or relatives got married, they’d ask her to help set up the wedding bed. In Maple Heights, if Mrs. Wilkins made your wedding bed, it meant good luck—at least, that’s what everyone said. Because of this, both my oldest and second sisters married well.

Folks said if Mrs. Wilkins made your wedding bed, you’d be blessed with happiness and a house full of children. She took the job seriously, fluffing pillows and tucking in sheets with a little prayer under her breath. People believed in her touch, and honestly, so did I.

The oldest married the son of a retired Army major, and the second married the youngest son of a city council member. After marriage, both sisters lived happily, blessed with big families.

They sent postcards from their new homes—one from a tidy brick house near the base, the other from a pretty street lined with maple trees. Holidays were a flurry of visits and baby pictures, and my mother always saved a slice of pie for when they came home.

When I reached the age to start thinking about marriage, my mom figured that, at best, I’d marry into the family of a local judge or a bank manager. But who would have guessed—the one who proposed to me was from the Whitmore family!