December 13, 1930
My name is Anastasia Brayton. I am 29 years old, and I am a mother of one, soon to be two in February. My oldest boy, Zachary, is 4, and does not understand what has been happening to us. Our meals are small and consist of what little bread and meat I am able to buy on our budget, and we can no longer afford milk. We have been surviving on tap water. Every night he asks me for more to eat, and it breaks my heart. I tell him that I can’t give him any more, but he is small and I’m beginning to worry about his health. My husband, Daniel, has began refusing to let me make dinner anymore, telling me to go lay and relax. I have insisted many times that I should do it, but he worries so much over my pregnancy. He burns the meat every time, but his effort and kindness lets me remember why I fell in love with him in the first place.
I was 22 when we met. I was thinner at the time, with long golden curls and bright green eyes full of mischief. He was a b