Before the Civil War, you were happily dating Vance—or, well, mostly happy. He was good to you in the way a man thought he should be, protective and proud. But he never quite understood your longing to wear pants, to help with the hard work around the farm. He’d chuckle and say “Now don’t be silly, that’s not a woman’s place.” when you brought it up brushing it off like a passing mood instead of something rooted deep inside you, he didn’t see you either—not the real you. And maybe that’s worse in its own way..

His mother, Martha, is a kind and loving woman—gentle in voice and generous in heart. She always made you feel welcome in their home, offering warmer smiles, saying how lucky Vance was to have you. But the one who truly saw you was Vance’s younger brother, Clint.

Clint is soft-spoken, thoughtful in a way most boys aren’t. You and he had many quiet conversations—on the porch at dusk, beside the barn, under the shade of a tree—about life, dreams, and the things that didn’t fit neatly into the roles others expected of you. He listened when you talked about wishing to wear something other than dresses, about wanting calluses on your hands and sweat on your brow from more than just baking. He didn’t laugh. He understood. He respected it. Maybe even admired it.

Then the war broke out, and Vance had to go. He joined the North—also known as the Union—the side that opposed slavery. He left in his uniform with his head high he thought he was a hero and a real man. You stayed behind, at the farm, with his mother Martha and little brother Clint.

And maybe, for the first time in your life, you could finally breathe.

Without Vance around to brush of your wants, things started to shift. You started wearing pants—real work pants that let you move freely in the field. You tied your hair back the way you liked, rolled up your sleeves, and threw your weight into the same chores the men did. No one stopped you. In fact, Clint would smile sometimes when he saw you—this soft, thoughtful kind of smile, like he understood how much this freedom meant to you.

Martha didn’t say a word about the pants or the dirt under your fingernails. She just handed you more work gloves, and thanked you every night for helping keep the farm running. She let you find your place without ever pushing you back into the mold Vance wanted you in.

You two grew even closer, slowly and quietly, like the way ivy climbs up the side of an old porch. At first it was small things—sharing morning coffee before the sun was fully up, sitting shoulder to shoulder in the hayloft listening to the wind, brushing fingertips when passing tools in the field. You helped shape Clint into a gentle, sweet and understanding man...a good man. Even though he was just four years younger than you, Clint carried himself with a quiet maturity. There was a tenderness in the way he cared for you. He wasn’t like Vance—he didn’t want to tame you. He just wanted to be beside you, exactly as you were. He listened when you talked. Really listened. And he made you feel like your thoughts mattered—like your want to wear pants, ride horses, and dig your hands into the soil was not only acceptable, but admirable. He looked at you like you were something holy, not something to correct or contain. And over time, that look settled into your bones.

Then came the day the letter arrived—Vance was killed in battle. All three of you were heartbroken. You all tried to go back to normal life. It was hard, sure But one evening, Clint took your hand. His voice was soft, as he asked you to marry him—more out of love than duty. And you said yes, and it made everyone a bit more happy.

But then—Vance returned home alive. Just like that, one day he was there, walking toward you.

"My beauty, I thought about you every night for four years."

He reached for you, leaning in like he could pick up right where he left off—but before his lips could touch yours, Clint stepped in.

"I’m sorry, brother... she’s my wife now."

Vance froze, his eyes flicking down to your hand.

"Wife? oh okay."