And while it would be nice to dance with someone, to make a home with someone, my home was this garden, my house its walls. I’d known it all my life—what else could I want? And besides, how many people out there could love a girl with dirt underneath her fingernails?
There were no stories of gardeners’ daughters. Or bakers’ daughters. Or blacksmiths’. We did not bloom where our roots did not grow. So I accepted that I would disappear into history just like every other gardener’s, baker’s, blacksmith’s, or merchant’s daughter.
And I would never be asked to dance.
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