Just another Day

In my society, girls are never appreciated. After the revolution things changed, but I lived before then. At this moment in time boys are a parents pride and joy; girls aren't even second best. I know my father would rather have a fool of a boy than a girl; most men would. I am the oldest of five children. When I was born, my father-the richest man in town- immediately married another woman and forced my mother to become a slave in his house. He was that brutal of a man. When I was thirteen my father needed money, because of a drought, and sold me to an elderly farmer as a maid. I lived with the old man for five years before he drowned while taking his weekly bath. I then went back to my fathers house and worked there for a year. I was then nineteen years old and unmarried. For my family that is a curse. But where was my father going find a husband for a slave?
I had always been complimented on my beauty. My hair was as black as a ravens feather, my skin was naturally pale, and my well bound feet were dainty and perfectly shaped. The local tea shop owners often asked for me, but my mother begged and pleaded with my father to keep me in his house.
Six months after I turned twenty, the owner of the only grain shop in town came to my father asking for a wife for his son. Wanting to get rid of me, and knowing about my looks, my father immediately made the match and sent me away with a healthy dowry.
The grain mans house was quite large and roomy. His wife was a plump woman who had born many sons for her husband. She was fond of me and let me sleep in her room until the wedding, which was three days after I arrived.
I was not allowed to see my future husband until the wedding day. When that cold December day came I was woken up early; before the pale winter sun could peek its head over the horizon. I was scrubbed from the top of my dark head to the bottom of my minuscule feet. My eyebrows were freshly tweezed and my small mouth painted red. My mother-in-law to be and her sister rubbed my skin with sweet smelling oils before I was dressed in a simple red gown. Ribbons and flowers were tied in my hair, and I was finally allowed to look at myself in a reflective piece of glass. I was used to seeing beautiful people, like the courtesans my father used to have, but my breath still caught in my throat when I say my reflection.
I was brought out into the middle room of the house to take part in the marriage ceremony. My future husband stood in front of me next to his father. His face was quite unreadable, but there was a twinkle in his brown eyes that told me he was pleased. He looked young, able-bodied, and quite handsome. He was to be my husband for life, and yet I did not know his name; only his face.
The ceremony went rather quickly, and afterwards everyone sat around a large table and feasted on many different delicacies; provided, of course, by my father. When the meal was finished it was getting dark and people were ready to leave. I stood quietly with my head down next to my husband while he said goodbye to the guests.
For the next few days I became accustom to my pattern of movements. In the morning I cooked breakfast with my mother-in-law, cleaned, and mended miscellaneous items. I cooked lunch at midday and did the dishes after. In the evenings I cooked dinner and then sat and listened to my husband and father-in-law talk of the days work.
As the days turned into weeks, and the weeks turned into months, and the months turned into years, and each child was born, nothing changed. Droughts and floods and fires came, but they all eventually faded into the distance of the past. At first I was to busy to notice, but eventually I came to realize that every day for me was just a little bit of happiness, mixed in with hardship, doubt, and dirty dishes.