Dear Diary, I promised myself a good day. I promised. I woke up happy, at least, happy enough. I took deep breaths on the hill by the split oak. I gathered mulberries for my porridge. I tended my garden and collected chamomile, ginger, wild lavender, and armfuls of mint to barter in the market. As I walked with my basket heavy I thought happy thoughts. Fresh cheese with honey or maybe some smoked pheasant, I was tasting mincemeat pie as I entered the market square. In the town’s center, the people stared. The air grew liquid charged with anger. I kept my head lifted. I know what I am. I am the savior when a child has a bone that needs setting, or when a granny has the chilblains, or a baby wants to be born. Roasted meat and sweet pies were left at my door in gratitude. But the crops went poorly this year from too little rain then too much. The town wanted a door to lay the blame on someone, anyone, me. It is the same story, always the same. No one remembered when they needed me needed my knowledge of the herbs, needed my knowledge of all the old old ways. I schooled my face. I promised to have a good day. With bad mood will soon pass, I said to myself. With shining eyes I smiled at Dagmar with my basket of greenery. The butcher woman turned away to tend to others. “The nerve.” “Shameful.” I spun to face those who whispered and I tripped over that Gottlieb boy. I fell hard. His little sister laughed and tossed an apple core at me. The town square cracked into laughter. With a hot face I ran through the woods to my home as those two children chased after me laughing and throwing stones. I wanted a good day. Maybe good days are not for me. But I know Hansel and Gretel will be sorry. I promise.