“David had wanted to be a gut husband. She was for sure and certain about that. And she’d loved him for trying. He just hadn’t known how. Was his cousin like David? If Malachi agreed to let her rent the storefront, would he change his mind later? Would she have to worry about eccentric items like the carousel horse showing up because he didn’t know how to accept proper forms of payment for services rendered?
If she had any other choice, she’d forget about the shop and Malachi Stoltzfus. But she didn’t. And now that she’d seen it with her own eyes, she wanted it even more. She squeezed her eyes closed, praying that wasn’t a sin.“
When I first dreamed up Malachi’s story, I knew he needed a widow.
What I didn’t know was how much of myself I was willing to place on those pages.
Writers often talk about “opening a vein and bleeding onto the page.” The best stories don’t come from imagination alone—they come from truth. From lived experience. From the parts of ourselves we once tried to hide.
In writing April, I had to give myself permission to allow parts of myself to find its way on the page.
So, with some transparency, here is how my life experience influenced April’s story:
Ten years ago, this June, I found myself a widow. Twenty plus years of marriage and four children, I had to find the space to discover Christina’s identity. And if I’m to be fully transparent, not just my identity but, my likes and dislikes.
My identity had not only been swallowed by marriage, but by undiagnosed ADHD, by the need to people please, by trying to fix the parts of myself others thought were broken, and by a marriage shaped by emotional extremes and expectations I never felt I could quite meet. When April reflects on her late husband and believes he had wanted to be a good husband—that truth came from a place of deep understanding.
As did April’s thirst for independence.
April might have made the casserole, the loaf of bread and a peach cobbler, but she felt like his aunt was about to serve her up on a platter for Malachi, and he didn’t realize it. He stood there, mouth agape, as if waiting to be spoon fed. Esther had set a trap for Malachi, using April’s cooking as bait, and they both had walked right into it. She stifled the urge to groan at the older woman’s matchmaking schemes.
But April had other plans. If he saw her value, maybe he wouldn’t be so hard-pressed to send her away. She shifted her weight and scooted around Malachi. She needed space and to keep from looking at him. He was too easy to tease and talk to, which was out of character for her, especially after living with David. The carefree woman she’d once been had disappeared upon her nuptials, but she was finding glimpses of her old self with this man, provingMalachi was nothing like David.
If she didn’t watch herself, and Esther, there’d be a wedding before she knew it.
Hers and Malachi’s.
But it wouldn’t work. She’d been married once and didn’t relish the thought of entering that institution again if she didn’t have to. Marriage afforded her little freedom. None actually. And she wasn’t too keen on losing the freedoms she had gained since David’s death. That was why the success of the store was so important. She needed to find herself again, and the store was the only way she saw of accomplishing that goal.
April sees her storefront as more than a business. It is a lifeline. A way back to herself.
I understood that need intimately. More than I could ever explain, but if you know you know.
After my late husband’s death, it took me three years before I could even consider dating, because I was afraid. Afraid of losing the fragile independence I was only just beginning to reclaim. I was afraid of disappearing again.
I did not want to disappear back into the shadows.
Like April, I needed something that was mine—something no one else could define, reshape, or take from me. Something I could hold in my hands and say, This is Christina. This is who she is becoming.
For me, that became my work.
My writing.
Each word I wrote in April’s story was testimony of my reclamation. A quiet declaration that I found my existence. That I was capable. That I could stand on my own.
April is my quiet way of celebrating…
My autonomy.
My voice.
Myself.
Today, I can tell you my story did not end there.
I have since been formally diagnosed with ADHD. I have learned coping skills to help me navigate my emotions. And I have been blessed with a husband who offers me emotional safety, understanding, and the freedom to remain fully myself.
But even more than that, like April, I discovered I could love again. Love without fear. Without conditions.
And like April, I discovered I could be loved—not for who someone needed me to be, but simply for who I am.
April’s journey is not my story.
But her fear was.
Her longing was.
Her rediscovery was.
Her thirst for autonomy.
Those parts of her… were born from truth. My truth.
Sometimes, life asks us to rebuild ourselves from the inside out.
Sometimes, we have to rediscover who we were before the world told us who we should be.
If you’ve ever had to find yourself again—after loss, after heartbreak, after change—I would be honored if you shared a simple comment:
“I found myself again.”
Or even just, “Still finding her.”
Because your story matters, too.
And sometimes, the bravest thing we can do…
is become ourselves again.
— Christina Rich
Amish Romance Sweeter than Shoofly Pie™
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