Before he even returned, my father had already sold us away.
My mother was the bargain. I was the leftover piece.
Then came the scarred huntsman no one dared approach—he laid down thirty silver without hesitation.
He required a contract first.
He put a bed together for us.
Not once did he ever raise a hand.
On the very first day, I called him Papa.
It was years before I understood he’d been waiting to be worthy of that name.
Some men pay for a wife.
He chose to create a home.
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