At last I grew tired of living Ian’s life and mine. The seamstresses knew of Ian’s folly and had seen him drunk in the street and whispered quietly between them. They politely smiled while I put together some wonderful quilts that sold more orders than we’d seen in weeks. We celebrated the onslaught of interest in our luck-draped factory while I wrote a note to Ian excusing myself from our marriage and obligations, with all my heart.

I paid Nelson, the boy next door, to tend the animals and left the note for Ian after packing my dresses and walking through the halls and kitchenette. Pensively my finger’s lightly touched my necklace as I took my last few steps in our home. I relied on the animals; the mistresses of our endeavor, to gather Ian back to whole and teach him the ways of the good ox. I ran to the factory to live in a small room above it, my long black hair flowing down my back like a horse’s mane, lashing about and slashing my face, the suitcases bumping against my knees causing injury and pain. I did not care.