“You look so much like your father,” she said, smoothing out a stray wrinkle in my dress. “Such a shame his looks did not translate well to a girl.”

She stopped and met my eyes in the mirror. “Try to be happy today, Anna. You will now be a woman. Your life is finally beginning.” How could it be beginning when I felt like I was dying inside?

Standing at the altar, I looked over my new husband as he said his vows to our priest. Manoel’s hair was slicked back with oil, and a thin trail of sweat rolled down his temple. He was even greasier than usual. How can that happen? I wondered. He was beaming, as if he had just won a hard-fought contest. I said the vows I had practiced like I was supposed to, not giving him the pleasure of a smile.

A middle-aged woman I vaguely recognized loudly whispered, “You would think she was at a funeral with that scowl.”

As we hurried out of the church my shoe slipped off. When I turned back to retrieve it, an old woman gripped it in her hands. “I am so sorry, this is a very bad sign.” She crossed herself. “You should get a blessing from the priest. Your marriage is doomed,” she whispered.

“I know,” I whispered back.

Dreading my wedding night, I kept passing goblets of wine to Manoel, hoping that he would become too drunk to perform his duties. However, when the time came, drink didn’t slow him. I held my breath as he climbed on top of me, feeling slightly smothered by his weight. Manoel fumbled with his member and then tried to kiss me, but I turned away, squeezing my eyes shut. For a moment, he hesitated, but then he started pounding like I was a shoe that needed repair.

Thankfully, it was over as soon as it began. He rolled off me, lying with his back to me. Meanwhile, I lay on my back, staring at the ceiling. Please, God, I will do anything. Don’t let me be pregnant.

* * *

September 1838

For three years I dealt with Manoel. He worked making or repairing shoes; when business was slow, which it often was, he went out fishing. However, most of what he earned he drank away at the tavern. Somehow, we managed to pay our rent every month and were able to put a little bit of food on the table. I picked up work cleaning houses when I could, but it wasn’t enough. I had to regularly choose between food, new clothing, and other basic needs.

I daydreamed of being out with the gauchos, reveling in my memories of riding through the hills as I stirred a pot of fish stew. We had been eating a lot of fish lately, given that it was the only thing we could afford. The deep red sauce bubbled, releasing a pleasant aroma through our little home. My husband was late again, but I didn’t mind. I liked it better when I was alone. In those solitary hours I got to pretend I was my own person. I daydreamed about my time as a gaucho. As I stirred the stew, I tried to conjure the feeling of the air rushing past my face while I rode my horse. Unfortunately, Manoel stumbled through the door, bringing with him my miserable reality.