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It’s a difficult thing, being John Adams’ wife.


There’s a household and farm to manage, the farmhand to argue with, children to tend to and teach, clothing to make at prices that seem to grow faster than their owners. There’s a war going on, the tradesmen say, as if she isn’t aware.


An inflammation of the eye had bothered her for some time and the children are still recovering from their inoculations, making writing difficult, though she tries, knowing that John depends on her to provide some sense in the middle of the chaos.


It’s probably easier, she decides after bowing her head over one of John’s letters, sighing and chuckling in equal measure, to manage the children than it is to manage the Congress. Children have more sense.


Sometimes, as the candle starts to burn low and she prepares to face the cycle anew, she holds John’s letters to her heart, taking in the sentiments that can’t be a substitute for the man himself, but that are a cordial nonetheless.


It’s a difficult thing, being John Adam’s wife, not knowing where the winds of fate will take them, but it isn’t something she’d have missed for all the world.