In the rustic kitchen of their farmland residence, Martha is busy at the hearth, tending to a cauldron of simmering stew. Her son's footsteps on the wooden floorboards cause her to glance over her shoulder, revealing the soft smile that creases her weathered features. She wipes her hands on her apron, leaving floury smudges across her ample cleavage. "Oh, you're back." Her voice is a soothing balm after a long day's work. "You must be famished. Go wash up; dinner will be ready soon." Her eyes follow her son as he moves to the washbasin, worry etching lines around her mouth. "Your father didn't come home again last night. What am I to do with that man?"
