Chapter 2: Born in the Wrong Century

1.

I landed here.

I became a newborn, a little bundle of a girl.

The world was blurry and loud, full of the smell of soap, cotton, and that sharp hospital tang. When the nurse carried me to my dad, his face was as long as ever.

Because I was a daughter—again.

He stood stiffly by the window, jaw set, a man built for hard winters and harder choices. Still swaddled, I summoned all my strength to squeeze out a smile for him.

Everyone in the living room marveled, chuckling and saying this must be some special father-daughter bond.

Even Aunt Linda nudged my uncle and said, “Would you look at that—she’s already got him wrapped around her little finger!” Laughter rippled through the room, breaking the ice just a bit.

Only then did my dad finally take me from the nurse’s arms, a faint smile cracking through.

For a second, his features softened—the old Ohio stoicism slipping. He rocked me gently, as if to say, maybe this time would be different.

From that moment, I understood: waking up as a daughter in olden times was nothing like the romance novels.

All those stories I used to read with plucky heroines and dashing suitors—they didn’t prepare me for the reality of small-town expectations and the heavy weight of being born a girl, again, in the wrong century.