This is how it should be. A husband. A home. A life that does not slip into darkness at night and return before dawn. I cannot wander the woods forever like a child chasing shadows. I cannot remain suspended in a night that does not belong to the world I was born into.
I must grow. I must do what is expected of me.
I nod faintly, though the movement feels distant.
"Yes," I say, my voice steady enough. "It will be."
Mama’s smile deepens, her hand still resting against my cheek, and for a moment I let myself remain there beneath it, holding still, as though if I do not move, the quiet between us might remain unbroken.
Hands gather around me before the sun has fully risen.
They guide me to my feet, to the basin, to the place prepared. Fingers loosen my clothes without asking, fabric slipping from my shoulders, my arms, my waist. I do not resist. I let them undress me as though I am not entirely there, as though the body they uncover belongs to someone who will understand this later, who will feel what I cannot.
Water is poured. It runs cold at first, then warmed by hands that move with purpose, washing, smoothing, preparing. Cloth passes over my skin again and again, as though they might cleanse something unseen. I stand in the middle of them, bare and still, my arms lifted when they guide them, my head tilted when they turn it.
"Tonight you become a woman," Doamna Ileana murmurs as she wrings the cloth between her hands.
"A husband’s rights are God’s will," another nods, smoothing water along my arms. "You must not resist him. It only makes it harder."
"It hurts only at first."
"Think of the children. It will be easier."
"Close your eyes and pray if you must," one of the older women says gently. "God will carry you through it."
The words pass over me like smoke, my mouth forming the shapes of agreement without sound.
I have already crossed that threshold they speak of in hushed, careful tones.
It was not pain.
It was not duty.
It did not make me turn away from myself.
A tremor passes through me. One of the women mistakes it for cold and draws a cloth tighter around my shoulders, rubbing warmth back into my skin. I let her.
They speak of obedience. Of stillness. Of quiet endurance.
I remember pleasure. I remember choosing. I remember the way my breath broke not from restraint but from something that felt like being unraveled from within. A heat that did not ask me to close my eyes, but drew them open.
"Hold still," Mama says softly behind me.
I realize I have shifted without noticing. I still again at once. Her hands are gentler than the others, careful as they smooth my hair, as they press the cloth along my arms. There is pride in her touch. Relief. A kind of tenderness that feels almost like apology, though no words are spoken.
Linen is drawn over skin that still remembers his touch. Laces pulled tight where his fingers had loosened them only hours before.
"There," Doamna Ileana breathes, her hands still hovering in the air where they last smoothed the fabric. "Look at her."
The others gather closer, their voices rising in soft exclamations. Fingers brush lightly at my sleeves, adjusting what is already set, straightening what does not need straightening. The dress is simple—white linen, drawn close at the waist, falling in clean lines to my feet. It fits tight against my ribs.
Mama comes to stand at my side.
For a moment she only looks at me. Her eyes move slowly, taking in each detail, as though she fears something might shift if she looks too quickly. Then her hand rises, trembling just slightly, and rests against my cheek.
"You are beautiful," she says, her voice on the verge of breaking. "Just as you should be."
Elena leans in close on my other side, her arm brushing mine. "Radu will not be able to look away," she whispers, her smile bright, her eyes shining.
