I married the boy from across the fence because I believed it was the only way to protect our family farm. For 20 years, I had hated him because of what my father claimed his family had done. But after the wedding, Tom led me to the old barn, and everything I thought I knew began to fracture.
I knew my wedding was a trap the moment I saw my dad laughing with the man he had spent 20 years teaching me to despise.
He was not merely smiling. He was laughing.
Dad stood beside the drink table with one hand resting on Grant’s shoulder as if they had been friends forever. Grant was Tom’s father, the man Dad had blamed for every hard year we had ever survived. Mom wore her bright church smile. Across from her, Tom’s mother, Mary, stared down into her cup.
I stood ten yards away in my grandmother’s white lace dress, mud staining the hem, boots hidden beneath it, with my new husband, Tom, beside me like a sentence in a rented suit.
We had been married 14 minutes.
“You’re standing on my dress,” I muttered.
Tom shifted barely half an inch. “Maybe you shouldn’t have worn half a curtain.”\
His jaw tightened. “Then I apologize to the curtain.”
I was seven when my mother disappeared.
Not from the house. That would have been easier to understand. Mom still cooked dinner, folded towels, and sat next to Dad at the table.
But the woman who used to braid my hair on the porch and sing while feeding the chickens vanished the day Dad pointed across the rusted barbed-wire fence and said, “That family will bury us if we give them an inch.”
Tom lived on the other side of that fence.
So I learned to hate him.
I hated him most when I found apples by my pony’s trough and Dad kicked them into the dirt.
“He left those to mock us,” Dad said.
I was young enough to believe him. “Why would he do that?”
“Because, Hazel, that family wants us looking weak.”
So I stopped waving to Tom across the fence.
