While my mother spoke on behalf of everyone in the house, my father, who until then hadn't said a word, closed the newspaper and spoke for the first time.

"Selene, stop bothering the girl."

My father spoke in a weak, tired voice. The tiredness was evident on his face. The dark, deep circles under his eyes showed the nights he hadn't slept and the weight of exhausting days. His shaggy white beard and the wrinkles around his eyes made him look much older than he really was.

That was my father, Thorne Callen. A man who, despite his few words, always knew how to intervene at the right moments.

I turned my gaze to him, feeling a tightness in my chest. There was something unsettling about seeing him like this, defeated, as if the weight of his responsibilities was about to crush him.

His hands, rough and full of calluses, were living proof of endless days and hours of work on Mr. Dorel's land. The cattle, the garden, the crops... He did it all by himself, and in recent months it seemed that tiredness had come to dominate his days, making him a shadow of the man he had been before.

"Dad..."

I tried to say something, but the words died before I got out. I wanted to thank him, I wanted to say that I saw what he was going through, that I felt the weight he was carrying and that I wanted to help him in some way. But how could I express that to a man like Thorne Callen? Someone who never asked for help, who seemed to carry the world on his shoulders without ever complaining?

He looked at me for a brief moment. There was something painful in his eyes, a kind of resignation. And then, with a heavy sigh, he looked back at my mother.

"The girl has enough decisions to make already, Selene. Let her make the choice this time."

My mother crossed her arms, visibly annoyed. She always hated it when he interfered. For her, life was a battle for control, and ceding any ground, even to her own husband, was a defeat.

She took a deep breath, but didn't say anything else. Deep down, she knew that if it had been for my father, this conversation wouldn't even be happening. But, as always, she didn't give up so easily.

I just wanted it to be over. I wanted to get up, go to my father and tell him that I was fine, that he didn't need to worry. But at the same time, part of me was afraid of saying something that might hurt him.

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My father went back to concentrating on the newspaper, or at least pretended to. I knew he wasn't reading. It was just a way of ending the conversation, of avoiding the confrontation that my mother was so desperately seeking.

Instead, the silence grew, and in the midst of it, the only thing I could feel was a tight lump in my throat.

When I looked at my current situation, the selection didn't seem so bad. However, I still wasn't brave enough to give up my freedom.

If it hadn't been for the good relationship my family had with the Dorel lords, we would surely have been dead a long time ago. It's a hard truth to accept, but it's pure reality.

As they were always very kind and welcoming to us, they ended up offering us a home on their land. In return, we helped with the daily chores, looking after the animals and planting and harvesting.

Their daughter, Seraphine, was like an older sister to me, and we were best friends. I remember afternoons spent running through the fields, laughing and dreaming of a future where there would be no more conflicts or heavy expectations.

Once, while we were lying on the grass, Seraphine looked up at the sky and said: "Livia, I hope that one day we can leave this place and explore the world. If that happens, I have the impression that everything will be so different."

Back then, I believed that we were indestructible, that we could face anything together. But now, it felt like the walls of our lives were closing in on me.

Although we weren't in a situation of extreme poverty, the shadow of misery was always present in our lives.

The weight of responsibilities grew as the harvest approached, and economic insecurity surrounded us like a dark cloud. The image of a bright future seemed so far away, but even so, there were moments when hope manifested itself, and I allowed myself to dream.

Before we hit rock bottom, only three social positions were worse than ours: artisans, who struggled to survive in precarious conditions and under strict regulations; mill and kiln workers, exposed to dangerous environments while operating unhealthy machinery; and weavers, who spent long hours at looms, facing a life marked by repetition and hardship.

To make matters worse, in addition to the financial difficulties, we had to face the intense cold of winter and the consequences this had on our only source of income.

Winter wasn't just a season; it was a monster that devoured our hopes, turning the fields into a white desert where no plant could thrive.

This would make our lives even more difficult, leaving us at the mercy of the Dorel mansion, resulting in our income being halved for three months or more. After all, we had six mouths to feed and only five people working.

What's more, our income depended heavily on the changing weather, which made everything even more difficult.

During periods of heavy snow, the fields that were once our allies became white deserts, and the excessive heat turned the soil into a parched crust, making cultivation almost impossible.

Even so, there were a few months between these two seasons when we could plant crops. Without these opportunities, we would be totally dependent on Mr. and Mrs. Dorel, which would result in a significant loss of harvest.

My father was responsible for almost all the activities on the Dorel land. He looked after the livestock, the garden and even the crops, all by himself.