You Took Life From Me

She's a beauty

Six years had passed, and though the calendar had turned, the struggle in my life remained as constant as ever. I was now 27, and Dahlia was a bright, energetic 7-year-old. The years had done little to dull the sharp edges of my torment. Henry's cruelty had morphed into a constant backdrop to our lives, a dark cloud that loomed over everything we did.

But Dahlia-she was my light. Her laughter and curiosity provided a temporary escape from the relentless weight of my reality. Every moment spent with her was a fleeting chance to forget, even if just for a while, the pain that Henry inflicted.

On this particular afternoon in 1916, the house was filled with Dahlia's joyous shrieks as she played with her dolls in the living room. I watched her from the doorway, a tender smile on my face, the sight of her innocence a balm to my weary soul.

I busied myself with the few chores that remained, using them as an excuse to stay away from Henry. His presence was always a threat, a reminder of the pain that lay just beneath the surface of our lives. His days were spent out of the house, often accompanied by his countless escapades and his growing detachment from us.

As I worked, I could hear Dahlia's cheerful voice rise and fall, a sweet contrast to the harshness that awaited me whenever he was home. Sometimes, I'd find myself lost in the sound of her happiness, allowing it to momentarily drown out the memories of our darker days.

But the reprieve was always short-lived. As soon as Henry came home, the air grew heavy again. The arguments resumed, the hostility, and the perpetual undercurrent of violence. Yet, in those fleeting moments between the shadows, Dahlia remained my sanctuary. She was growing up so fast, her bright eyes and boundless energy a daily reminder of what I fought to protect.

I focused on nurturing her, keeping her safe and as far removed from the turmoil of our home as possible. Each smile, each giggle, and every word of love she uttered was a stark contrast to the harsh reality of life with Henry. It was these moments that kept me going, the hope that somehow, things would one day change for the better.

As Dahlia grew, the changes in her appearance became more pronounced. Her skin, once pale, grew darker, a rich and warm hue that spoke to her heritage. Her hair, once soft and straight, transformed into a wild cascade of thick, curly frizz. Her lips and nose, full and expressive, mirrored my own features, a testament to the blend of our backgrounds.

These changes did not go unnoticed. Henry, already angered by his own unmet expectations and the consequences of our union, was furious. He blamed Dahlia's appearance on me, seething at the sight of the little girl whose features increasingly reflected my own. His anger was palpable, a constant undercurrent to his already volatile temper.

My family, too, reacted poorly. Their scheme to "outbreed" me, to produce a child who would align more with their expectations and values, had failed. They had hoped for a child who looked more like them, someone who could fit neatly into their world without disrupting the status quo. Dahlia, with her appearance becoming a clear and undeniable reminder of our mixed heritage, was a source of frustration and disappointment for them.

Despite the anger and disapproval from those around me, I found solace in Dahlia's appearance. Each change in her looks was a small victory, a sign that our love and our history were not easily erased or controlled. Her features, so obviously a reflection of both of us, became a source of quiet pride. While they saw her as a problem, I saw her as a beautiful testament to our defiance and resilience.

That evening, we gathered around the dinner table, a rare moment of semblance of normalcy in the chaos of our lives. Henry was distant, as usual-his eyes lost in the distance, his mind seemingly elsewhere. Yet, his love for Dahlia was evident in the way he looked at her, despite his disengagement from the rest of us.