Chapter 3: Born Cursed, Forged in Loss

The first year I married, I gave birth to a daughter.

I still remember the pain, the fear, the hope. I thought maybe things would be different for me.

But I never saw her. They took her away—just like that. Tossed her into the frozen creek.

They said it was for the best, that girls like me shouldn’t bring daughters into the world. I never forgave them.

The second year, I had twin boys.

I barely had time to hold them before they were whisked away, my heart breaking all over again.

But I never saw them either. Before the afterbirth was even out, my husband’s family kicked me to the curb.

I stood outside in the snow, blood still running down my legs, their voices cold as stone. I realized then I was truly alone.

They had their heirs; they didn’t need a jinx like me.

I was just a vessel, disposable. The pain of it burned deep, but I refused to let it break me.

Nowhere to go. Nothing left. I thought about ending it all in the river.

The water was dark and cold, promising oblivion. I stood on the bank, toes curled in the mud, ready to let go.

But at the riverbank, I found a baby girl, barely alive.

She was swaddled in rags, her cry weak but stubborn. I took it as a sign—maybe the world wasn’t done with me yet. Couldn’t leave her. Couldn’t leave myself, either.

I had a daughter now, so I didn’t want to die.

She gave me purpose, pulled me back from the edge. I wrapped her in my coat and promised her a better life.

I took her with me and found shelter in an abandoned roadside chapel.

The roof leaked, the pews were broken, but it was ours. I swept out the dust and made a bed from old hymnals and hope.

By day, I worked on a fishing boat. At night, I cared for her in that crumbling chapel.

My hands grew calloused from hauling nets, my back sore from bending over her crib. But every night, I sang her to sleep, my voice echoing off the stained glass.

Josie Chandler. That name sounded right—strong, sweet. It was us against the world.

She was a good kid, never fussy. As soon as she could reach the stove, she’d start helping with dinner like she’d always known how.

She’d stand on a crate, stirring the pot, humming old gospel tunes. She learned fast, hands nimble and sure.

She loved to smile, two dimples popping out every time she ran to meet me after work.

Those dimples were my sunshine, chasing away the darkest days. I lived for her laughter, her arms around my waist.

I treasured her, but the guilt gnawed at me—I couldn’t give her the life she deserved.

Every birthday, every Christmas, I wished I could give her more—new shoes, a real home, a father’s love. The ache never left me.

That guilt peaked when she turned fifteen. Fifteen. God, that age.

Time to think about her future. Trouble was, no boy in town would have her.

They saw her as the six-fingered girl’s daughter—strange, unlucky, not fit for marriage. The mothers whispered, the fathers looked away.

I was desperate, but she just shrugged: “I don’t want to get married yet, Mom. Being with you is enough for me.”

Her words warmed me, but I knew she deserved more. I stayed up nights, praying for a miracle.