Beloved Daughter

My Dearest Daughter,

I am sorry that you feel this way. Truly, I am. It pains me to think that you believe I have abandoned you or that we have wronged you. Please understand, this decision was never meant to hurt you. Your father and I only want what’s best for you. We thought it would provide you with a future, with stability, even if it seems hard to see that right now.

I know it must feel overwhelming, and perhaps you feel alone, but this is just part of growing up. You must learn that life is not always what we wish it to be, and sometimes we must endure things that seem difficult in order to find peace. I have gone through this, and now, it is your turn. It’s what must be done.

I am sorry if you feel our actions have hurt you, my love, but I assure you, we only want what is best. I will always be here for you, and I hope you will come to understand this in time.

With all my love,

Mother

Rough hands, coarse like burlap. Pawing clumsily. Red scratches, a marked pale figure, raw and burning. The rushing air from the ceiling fan, painful on her bare skin. The air was humid. It stunk of sweat and stale liquor. A wife lay motionless, rigid as stone. Breath shallow. Quick. Trying to disappear into the bed below. A husbands breath, sour and close, interrupted muffled sobs. The creak of the old mattress. One loomed over another. A beast over a dove. His bulk eclipsing that of her nightlight. A wife dared not cry out. She dared not argue. She dared not question why.

Mother,

Why did you let Father send me away? Why did you let me go to this man? What have I done to upset you both so? What did I do wrong? Please, tell me this was a mistake. Please, let me come home. I promise I’ll be better. I’ll do whatever you ask, just don’t leave me here.

With love,

your ever-apologetic daughter

Dearest daughter, my sweet child,

You have done nothing wrong. We are not upset with you—how could we ever be? There is nothing I want more than to have you back home, to see you and your sisters playing by the creek, your laughter ringing through the trees. But it is not for me to decide. Your father had struck a deal, one he believed will secure your future and provide for us all.

With a heavy heart,

Mother

Mother,

What future do you speak of? Every day, I am hurt—physically, yes, but more so in my soul. I am tired, forced to cook, to clean, to please, to do everything without question or argument. You say I have done nothing wrong, that I have not disappointed. Yet I am treated like a goat, like an animal to be bartered away to the highest bidder, to do with as they please.

Mother, why? Why did you let this happen?

In pain,

your ever obedient daughter

Daughter,

This is the way it has always been—and how it must be. I, too, married your father when I was your age, and though it was difficult, I endured, just as you must now. You are no longer a child, and I know this will be hard to accept, but it is time for you to step into your future. The time for frivolous things is behind you.

What happens now is in your hands. You must understand that this is part of life. And it is your choice how you live this life. You must be a good wife, and in doing so, you will find your place. It is the way of the world, and though it may be hard, it is the only way.

One day, you will have a daughter who will question you, as you now question me. You will have to explain to her, just as I do now, that this is not punishment but a necessity. Through tears, you will hold her close and reassure her, telling her that while the road is hard, it is the only road. You will show her, as I have shown you, that love, in its truest form, is understood through sacrifice. And you will do this with all the love a mother can give.

I love you always,

Mother

Loud sirens and explosions. Booming through the halls. While dirty dishes pile high, the sink overflows. A stench, overpowering, like sliced onions, stings the eyes. The beast, rests, lazing on the couch, engulfed in the blue glow of the television. The girl’s wrinkled, soaked hands tremble as a bowl slips from her grasp, shattering on the floor. The beast stirs, rising. A bottle slams into the wall beside her. The obedient girl scurries for a broom. The glass swept, as commanded. A stable life she was given. Safe. The envy of all.

Mother,

Why must I stay? There are others who marry for love, who find happiness in their husbands' company. Why must I endure this? Please, ask Father. Ask him to allow me to leave. This is not a life for his daughter, for his blood. I, too, have dreams. I, too, have goals. I want a life of my own, filled with happiness and joy. But I have been condemned to being an instrument of pleasure, a tool of whim.

I have no friends here. Oh, how I miss my friends.

Your ever-patient daughter

Daughter,

Are you not going to bed with a full belly every night? Do you not wake up each morning with a roof above your head? Of which your husband has provided, the same husband that your father worked hard to find? Father has fought for your future, and he has ensured you are well cared for. I know this is difficult for you, but please, understand that your childish notions of love can cloud what is truly important.

Your duty now is to your husband. To bear children, to nurture his house. Love may not come immediately, but you will see—one day, you will be grateful for the life he provides.

When you have your own child, you will understand. You will love them, care for them, raise them. And then, as I must, you will let them go. This is the way of things.

I pray, with all my heart, that your own child is not as strong-headed as my own. But you will see, in time, how much love is born from sacrifice.

In love and duty,

Mother

Tears flow, wet paper, soggy and warped. Ink runs as words contort, a mother’s message blurred. The buzz of a fly slices the silence. Nightmares breed in the dark, while the light of her dreams fade. Beside her, a slender white stick rests. Two deep, crimson lines cut across its face—stark, undeniable, burning like a flame. A child, branded like livestock. Pain carved into the tender place no man should ever touch. Throbbing. A constant reminder. A child stands, the letter clutched in one hand, the terrible news clutched in the other. She climbs the railing, letter pressed tightly against her chest. Her eyes close. The world blurs.

Wind in her ear.

A child no more.

Beloved daughter,

It has been nearly a month since we last heard from you. The silence is unsettling as it is so unlike you. We had become so accustomed to your letters, and now they are missing. Father and I had hoped to surprise you with a visit in the coming days, but our excitement has gotten the better of us.

We pray things have eased at home. Could the reason for your silence be that you are adjusting, settling in?

Happy fifteenth birthday, our beloved daughter.

With love,

Mother and Father.