I wonder why God doesn’t let us always see the sun, and feel the warmth and rays upon our skin. I, Catherine Bédard, will ask God this when I get to heaven. Yet for now, I just let my confusion run its course as I knead out the morning loaf on the thick, maple board. “Catherine!” my grandfather’s voice cuts through my thoughts. “Yes, Grand-père?” I sigh, bracing myself for criticism. “Catherine, there is someone here to see you.” I am startled. Who could be here so early? I cross over our small kitchen into the living area, and am startled to see Dr. Girard standing in the middle of the room with a worried look in his eyes, and red spots on his cheeks. “Catherine,” the doctor’s deep voice began, “Anne is very sick.” Anne had been my best friend since we came to Canada on the ship together, five years ago, in 1647. My grand-père and I lived in Ville-Marie, and she lived further north, in the forest. Anne had moved to the forest 2 years ago when, at the age of 17 she had married Xavier, a fur trapper born in Quebec of French parents. The doctor told me he had received word that Anne was giving birth to her first child. The messenger had left a week ago from Anne’s house, when the first labor pains were starting, and the doctor had wanted to take me because he knew I had been at the births of a few of the local children. He also knew, like everyone else, how close Anne and I were. After the long, cold ride, which lasted almost a week, Dr. Girard and I arrived at Anne and Xavier’s small cottage. Upon entering, I beheld my best friend lying in a small bed, with her usually well-kept hair matted and scattered on the pillow. Cheeks flushed, lips parched, and irregular breathing told us Anne was not well. The doctor began opening his suitcase, as I moved over to the bed. “Anne,” I inhaled sharply, “I’ve missed you.” Anne’s glossed over eyes began to water and tears rolled down her cheeks.  “Catherine, I’m not going to make it.” I looked confusedly from her to Xavier and back to her. Then my eyes fell on the baby, only a few days old. It was a beautiful baby, having inherited her mother’s dark hair, and her father’s rosy skin. Anne saw me looking at the baby, and smiled proudly through tears. I held her hand. Three hours later and many prayers later, Anne passed from this earth with her baby in her arms and her husband lying on the bed beside her. The doctor explained to me that when Anne was birthing, they hadn’t taken care to sanitize everything, and Anne had contracted a serious illness. The labor had been long and hard, and Anne only had one older lady to help her; their closest neighbor.   There had been nothing the doctor could have done. Anne was too sick and too worn out. I looked at Marianne, cuddled in her dead mama’s arms, with her father’s arms wrapped around them both. What sort of life was shaping up for her, now that her mother was gone? Her mother is gone, I told myself. Only then, did the realization hit me, and I started to cry. The next morning, we sent for the Jesuits in Ville-Marie to come and give Anne a proper Christian burial. After the messenger left, Xavier pulled me aside. “Catherine,” he began, “Anne, well, Anne left a few last desires that need takin’ care of. She didn’t write ‘em down, as she wasn’t really of that mindset that she’d need ‘em, until she… well, you know…” his voice trailed, and tears came to his eyes. “Anyways,” he said, trying to clear his throat, and only succeeding in shedding some of the tears, “Anne told ‘em to me. She told me that she didn’t want her daughter to be raised up without the influence of a woman.” “Yes, I can see why,” I slowly said. “Catherine, Anne wanted you to be Marianne’s mother.” I stood in the road holding Marianne. Her eyes had opened, and they were staring trustingly up at me. I felt a sharp pain in my chest as I watched the doctor raise his hand in final farewell before disappearing from sight. He bore the news he had to give to my grand-père that I would not be coming home.  I turned and looked at the log cabin that was to be my home for the next few years, perhaps permanently. It was surrounded by forests, rough grounds, and a river in the back. The early morning sun was just beginning to creep through the trees. It’s quiet, gentle rays fell on a simple wooden cross next to the river. That is the reason I’m staying, I reminded myself. So that Anne can be near her little girl, forever and always.