“Belle, We don’t have any money.” My father’s voice came out shakey. I had slowly placed the broom down, knowing where this conversation was going. The conversation always started like this. But this time I knew a decision would have to be made. I drew the curtains in an attempt to distract myself from getting emotional. The late afternoon light slanted weakly through the small parlor window, catching the dust in the air and turning it to drifting gold. Our curtains had once been ivory. Now they were the color of old parchment, worn thin at the hems. Everything in this house felt tired. The chairs. The walls. My father.And now, perhaps, me. "Belle," he said when I didn't respond. “Father, please,” I whispered. My hands were clenched so tightly in my skirts that my knuckles ached. “I have always dreamed of a love like you and Mother had. I cannot marry a man I do not love—let alone know.” His jaw tightened at the mention of her. It always did. “Belle,” he said more gently, thou
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