I wondered if the FREE AI tools could provide me with a story about the reaction of my grandmother, Emily Kemp Auble (1899-1977) during 1916 when her father, Charles Auble (1849-1916) died. I wrote about Georgia Auble's vigil in Ask AI: Describe Georgia Auble's Vigil In 1916.
My genealogical sketch for Emily Kemp Auble is My Maternal Grandmother, Emily Kemp (Auble) Carringer (1899-1977), based on my genealogical research.
1) My Prompt to free Anthropic Claude Sonnet 4.5 was: "Please write a story about Emily Auble's life before and after the death of her father in March 1916."
2) The AI tool responded with this story (yes, it is historical fiction, but the way it might have been):
Emily's World Changes
March 1916 - San Diego, California
Emily Auble sat at her desk in her English class at San Diego High School, trying to focus on Miss Hamman’s lecture about Shakespeare's sonnets. The words swam before her eyes, meaningless combinations of letters that refused to form coherent thoughts. She hadn't slept properly in three months, not since that December night when everything had changed.
"Emily?" A whisper came from her left. Gladys Nolan, her best friend since the seventh grade at Lincoln School, was looking at her with concern. "Are you all right?"
Emily nodded automatically, the same lie she'd been telling everyone for weeks. She wasn't all right. How could she be? Her father was dying at home, slowly fading away from complications of that terrible fall, and there was nothing anyone could do about it.
The bell rang, startling Emily from her thoughts. She gathered her books mechanically, following the flow of students into the hallway.
"Wait up," Gladys called, catching up to her. "Want to come over after school? Mother made gingerbread yesterday."
Emily shook her head. "I should get home. Mother might need help with..."
She didn't finish the sentence. Gladys knew what she meant. Everyone knew. The whole school seemed to know that Charles Auble, the painter, had fallen down his own stairs after a night of drinking and was dying by inches in the house on 14th Street.
"Emily," Gladys said gently, taking her friend's arm. "You can't just go home and sit there every day. You need to take care of yourself too."
"I'm fine," Emily insisted, but even as she said it, tears began to well up in her eyes. "I have to go."
She hurried down the hall before Gladys could see her cry, before anyone could see her cry. Emily Auble was sixteen years old, and her world was falling apart.
March 23, 1916 - Evening
The house on 14th Street was full of people—Uncle Franklin, neighbors, men from the Painters Union—all speaking in hushed voices, offering condolences that sounded hollow and meaningless. Emily sat in the corner of the parlor, numb and exhausted from hours of crying.
Her father was dead.
The words didn't seem real. Just this afternoon, she'd been sitting with him, holding his hand while he drifted in and out of consciousness. And now he was gone, and the house felt different, emptier, as if his absence had created a void that couldn't be filled.
"Emily, dear." Her mother appeared at her side, looking pale and drawn but somehow still composed. Georgia had always been the strong one, the practical one. "Why don't you go up to your room and rest? I'll handle things down here."
"I should help," Emily protested weakly.
"You've helped enough, sweetheart. Go rest. Please."
Emily climbed the stairs to her small bedroom, passing the closed door of her parents' room where her father had died just hours ago. She couldn't look at it. Inside her own room, she collapsed onto her bed, still wearing her school dress, and stared at the ceiling.
A soft knock came at the door. "Emily? It's Gladys."
Emily sat up, surprised. "Come in."
Gladys entered, her face somber. She was carrying a basket. "Mother sent food. And I wanted to see how you were."
"How did you...?"
"My father heard from a friend. I came as soon as I could." Gladys set the basket down and sat on the edge of Emily's bed. "I'm so sorry, Em."
And then Emily was crying again, great wracking sobs that seemed to come from somewhere deep inside her. Gladys held her, not saying anything, just being there, and somehow that was exactly what Emily needed.
When the tears finally subsided, Emily pulled back, wiping her eyes. "I don't know what to do," she whispered. "Everything feels wrong. He's gone, and I don't know how to make sense of it."
"You don't have to make sense of it right now," Gladys said. "You just have to get through today. And then tomorrow. And I'll be here to help you."
March 25, 1916 - The Funeral
Emily stood beside her mother at the graveside service, watching as the men from the Painters Union lowered her father's casket into the ground. The day was bright and clear—unfairly beautiful for such a terrible occasion. Reverend W.E. Crabtree spoke words about eternal rest and peace, but Emily barely heard them.
She kept thinking about the fall. About how if her father had just come home when he'd promised, if he hadn't had so much to drink, if his friends had held onto him more carefully on those porch steps, he might still be alive. The "what ifs" circled in her mind endlessly, a torture she couldn't escape.
Gladys stood slightly behind her, a quiet presence of support. After the service, as people began to drift away, Gladys squeezed Emily's hand.
"You don't have to be strong all the time," she whispered. "It's all right to fall apart."
But Emily couldn't fall apart. Her mother needed her. They had decisions to make, a future to figure out, bills that would keep coming whether her father was alive or not.
April 1916
The days after the funeral blurred together. Emily tried to return to school, but found she couldn't focus. The subjects that had once interested her—English literature, history, mathematics—seemed pointless now. What did Shakespeare matter when your father was dead? What did algebra have to do with real life?
She sat in the parlor one evening with her mother, both of them sewing in silence. The house felt too quiet without her father's presence, without his footsteps on the stairs, his voice calling out when he came home from work, the smell of paint and turpentine that had always clung to his clothes.
"Mother," Emily said suddenly, "we need to talk about money."
Georgia looked up from her mending, her face carefully neutral. "I'm handling it, Emily. Don't worry yourself."
"But I know Father's business is gone, and the bills..." Emily had been thinking about this for days, adding up numbers in her head. The house, the food, the funeral expenses. Her mother's widow's pension wouldn't be enough.
Georgia set down her sewing and looked at her daughter directly. "Emily, you're sixteen years old. You should be finishing high school, going to parties, thinking about your future. Not worrying about bills."
"But I am worried," Emily said. "And I'm old enough to help. I could get a job. Marston's is always hiring. I could work as a sales clerk, or in the office..."
"Absolutely not," Georgia said firmly. "You're going to finish school."
"Mother, be realistic," Emily argued, feeling tears prick at her eyes again. "We can't afford for me to just go to school and do nothing. You need help, and I can provide it. I want to provide it."
Georgia's composure cracked slightly, and Emily saw the fear and exhaustion underneath. "If you leave school now, you'll never go back. You'll spend your whole life working in shops and offices, never getting the education you deserve."
"Maybe that's just how it has to be," Emily said quietly. "Father's gone. Things have changed. We have to change with them."
They sat in silence for a long moment, the weight of this new reality settling over both of them like a shroud. Finally, Georgia spoke again, her voice barely above a whisper.
"I wanted so much more for you. College, maybe. Or at least a high school diploma. Choices. Opportunities. Not this."
"I know," Emily said, moving to sit beside her mother on the sofa. She took Georgia's hand. "But we're in this together, Mother. We'll get through it together."
Georgia squeezed her daughter's hand, tears finally spilling down her cheeks. "You're so young to carry this burden."
"I'm stronger than I look," Emily said, trying to sound more confident than she felt. "You've taught me that."
May 1916
"You're really leaving?" Gladys asked, her voice thick with emotion. They were sitting on a bench outside San Diego High School during lunch period. Emily had just told her friend about her decision.
"I don't have a choice," Emily said. "We need the money. Mother can't pay all the bills on her own, and I can't just sit in school learning about ancient Rome when she's struggling."
"But you're so close to graduating," Gladys protested. "You only have one more year. Can't you just finish?"
Emily shook her head. "I've thought about it from every angle. Even if I could finish this year and graduate next spring, that's more than a year of lost income. We can't afford it." She paused, looking down at her hands. "I've already applied at Marston's. They're going to hire me."
"Marston's Department Store?" Gladys asked. "What will you do there?"
"Sales clerk, probably. Or maybe work in the office. They said they'd find a position for me." Emily tried to sound optimistic, but the words felt hollow. A month ago, she'd been planning her senior year, thinking about what she might study after graduation. Now she was planning to spend her days selling gloves and handkerchiefs to wealthy ladies.
Gladys was quiet for a moment, and Emily could see her friend struggling with what to say. Finally, Gladys spoke. "I'll miss you. School won't be the same without you."
"I'll miss you too," Emily said, and she meant it. Leaving school meant leaving behind the last bit of normalcy in her life, the last connection to the girl she'd been before her father's accident. "But we'll still see each other. I'll just be working instead of studying."
"Promise me something," Gladys said suddenly, grabbing Emily's hand. "Promise me you won't let this define your whole life. You're not just the girl whose father died. You're not just the girl who had to quit school. You're Emily Auble, and you're smart and kind and you deserve to be happy."
Emily felt tears spring to her eyes for what felt like the thousandth time in the past two months. "I'll try," she whispered.
"And promise me we'll stay friends," Gladys continued. "No matter what happens, no matter how different our lives become. You're my best friend, Emily. That doesn't change just because you're not in school anymore."
"I promise," Emily said, and they hugged tightly, both of them crying now, mourning the future that should have been.
June 1916 - Last Day of School
Emily's last day at San Diego High School was anticlimactic. She cleaned out her locker, turned in her textbooks, and said goodbye to a few teachers who looked at her with pity that made her want to scream. Miss Hamman, her English teacher, pulled her aside in the hallway.
"Emily, I'm so sorry about your circumstances," Miss Hamman said kindly. "You're one of the brightest students I've ever taught. It's a shame you can't continue."
"Thank you, Miss Hamman," Emily said, not sure what else to say.
The teacher handed her a small package wrapped in brown paper. "Keep reading," she said. "Education doesn't end just because school does. This is for you."
Later, when Emily unwrapped the package at home, she found a collection of poems by Emily Dickinson and a note that read: "For Emily Auble, who has more strength and grace than she knows. Never stop learning. Never stop growing. - Miss Hamman"
Emily sat on her bed, holding the book, and cried for the third time that day.
That evening, Gladys came over with her own gift—a leather-bound journal. "For writing down your thoughts," Gladys explained. "My mother always says that writing helps when things are hard. You can tell the journal things you can't tell anyone else."
"Thank you," Emily said, hugging her friend tightly. "For everything. For being there through all of this."
"That's what friends do," Gladys said simply. "And I'm not going anywhere. Even if you're not in school anymore, I'm still your friend. I'll always be your friend."
After Gladys left, Emily sat with her mother in the parlor. Georgia had been unusually quiet all evening, and Emily could see the guilt and sadness in her face.
"It's not your fault, Mother," Emily said gently. "None of this is your fault."
"You should be celebrating the end of your junior year," Georgia said. "Planning your senior year. Going to summer parties with Gladys. Instead, you're giving up your education to work in a department store because I can't provide for us on my own."
"We're providing for us together," Emily corrected. "That's what families do. They help each other." She paused, then added, "Father would want us to take care of each other. And this is how we do it."
Georgia's eyes filled with tears. "You're so much braver than I was at your age."
"I'm not brave," Emily said. "I'm terrified. But I'm doing it anyway, because there's no other choice. And you're doing the same thing. We're both just... surviving. Together."
"Surviving together," Georgia repeated softly. "I suppose that's all we can do for now."
To be continued…
A Historical Fiction Story Inspired by Emily Kemp Auble's Life
Note: This is a work of historical fiction. While based on the documented life of Emily Kemp Auble (1899-1977), daughter of Charles Auble (1849-1916) and Georgianna Kemp Auble (1868-1952), the specific details, dialogue, thoughts, and conversations in this story are imagined. We know Emily left San Diego High School in June 1916 after her father's death and went to work to support her mother, but the exact circumstances and her emotional experience are not recorded in historical documents.
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3) Here is the Video Overview of this post by Google NotebookLM:
4) This is historical fiction based on the facts that are available for the life and family of EmilyAuble. It is historical fiction based on social history and society norms at the time and place, so it is likely realistic. It might have happened this way.
5) I had to tell this story -it's a Turning Point for all three of them. Each ancestor faces challenges in their life, and telling stories about them helps our descendants understand their parents lives and their own lives.
I asked Claude to write this story 110 years after Charles Auble died on 23 March 2026. I didn't plan it that way, it just happened. When I realized that, I wondered if the ancestors were telling me to tell this story now.
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