13
My father was a hard man, a man of faith, of structure and absolution.
He believed that we each had a role to play in our small society, and that resisting those roles was a sin that demanded atonement.
That woman was made for man, for his comfort, for his pleasure.
And women who rebelled against those structures were doomed for the devil himself.
One summer evening, as Christmas quickly approached, we tarried through the market with haste. Collecting tallow candles for our alters and trinkets for our offerings.
Often, strangers would brush our shoulders at the community events, and those fleeting interactions would become precious to small me – a moment of newness that I would hold onto and cherish in the days following as our lives returned to routine.
But this day, as the market filled with strangers, I bore witness to the depth of my fathers fervor, the awareness of that stern belief slicing through my innocence in a way that fractured me right down the middle.
Ahead of us, baskets clasped beneath their arms, two women with flowing hair and velvet ribbons laced through their braids, walked hand in hand.
Their laughter filtered back to us, like birdsong on the summer breeze.
The mirth of it made me giggle, made small me feel lighter on my toes as I absorbed the echo of their adoration for each other.
They smiled as they walked, plucking bunches of carrots and slipping them into their baskets, kissing each other’s knuckles, holding candles to one another’s noses to share their own small joys.
I wish it had ended there – happy and full of joy. Instead, the memory is something that has burrowed into the very core of me, cementing itself as something that tears my thoughts between understanding and revulsion.
Father gripped mine and Isa’s hands in his, pressing, squeezing, our fragile bones aching beneath the pressure as fury heated his palms.
I glanced at Isa, confused. She blinked in return, tears welling across her lashes, the apples of her small cheeks flushing vibrant red as she withheld those tears.
“Father?” I asked warily, scared to uncork the anger he was barely withholding.
“Disgusting,” he growled, pushing through the market in search of mother.
“What is?” I questioned, confused.
“Affection between women is a sin, Heather. The devil’s work. Women are for men.”
I was confused, because I loved many women in my life – Isabel, Mother, Francesca. How could loving them be anything but a celebration?
“Why is it a sin, father?” I asked, curiosity blooming.
He stopped suddenly, gravel crunching beneath his boots that made my spine stiffen with regret. He turned to me with sharp eyes, spittle bubbling at the corner of his lip as he swallowed back his contempt.
“Heather, woman is made for man,” he spat, leaning down close to my face. “That was how God intended it. We are on this earth to continue his lineage, to fruit children that follow his lead, awaiting his return. That is our purpose. Can two women fruit children, Heather?”
Truthfully, I didn’t know. I didn’t know how children were created, only that it required a mother and father, so I dutifully bowed my head and shook it in solemn agreement.
“No, they cannot. God didn’t give them the means for it, and if he intended it to be so, he would have created them that way. When two women share a bed, they are willfully disobeying the order of things. It is selfish, a sin born of lust and greed, and I refuse to have my daughters exposed to it.”
He gripped our hands once more, wrenching us forward, causing us to stumble and heat with shame as onlookers glanced at us with concern.
“Are we going home?” Isa squeaked, tears now streaming down her cheeks.
“We are going to the chapel,” father replied, never slowing. “You will pray to God for their souls. That is our duty as the lords’ faithful servants.”
And so, we did. We spent the afternoon on our knees at the chapel altar, skin blistering against the hot stone floor, praying for strangers’ absolution. Praying for strangers to
realise the depravity of their choices, and amend their ways.
“Fornicators,” my father seethed beneath his breath, a vein beginning to swell at the edge of his jaw. “Fornicators and sodomisers are the work of the devil himself,” he stewed as we remained deathly quiet beside him, afraid to even breathe.
Father was silent the rest of the evening, digesting his anger, but somewhere inside me, a seed had been planted.
A longing to know more, to understand why I wasn’t allowed to love the women I did.
I hadn’t understood the difference between affection and lust, and somehow, I had combined them in my mind.
What I hadn’t realised was that where affection ended and lust began, Francesca had taken root.
“Isabel, what on earth are you thinking?” Mother’s voice echoes through the living room, the shrill of it bouncing off the walls and needling into my brain.
Isabel stands in the doorway, her slim body donned with the thin cloth of a slip dress, her shoulder bones visible beneath the reedy straps.
“I- it’s just a dress.” she says quietly, eyes downcast, fingers twisting in the fabric at her thighs.
“Where did you get it?” Mother asks, eyes narrowed.
We aren’t permitted to show our shoulders, or wear anything other than natural cloth. We receive pre-loved shoes from older children in the community, and have to hand mend any rips of tears in our dresses with needle and thread. Isabel standing here now is a quiet protest most unexpected.
“A friend,” she says, still rigid in her stance. “It’s just a dress, mother. It isn’t of any consequence.”
I step towards her, nerves flickering like a budding flame in my stomach. Even the smallest defiance is dangerous in this house – with father gone, mother still maintains the rules he set in place. Still abides by God’s governing.
“It’s okay, Isa. Come on, Let’s just get changed into our house dresses,” I urge gently, trying to guide her to the door, away from mother’s furious gaze.
“You are a child of God, Isabel!” Mother screams, her eyes ablaze, vein pulsing in her temple.
“Jezebels wear those fabrics. Whores and filth. You are not on this earth to succumb to the whims of modern femininity. Vanity feeds the flesh, and nurtured flesh leads to sin. A woman submissive to God starves her vanity and keeps herself humble so that her heart stays pure.”