I suddenly become aware of the softness beneath me, and I realize that my breathing has been compromised because I’m lying face down. I quickly turn my head to the side, remembering in my hazy state that some people have been smothered by pillows. The light is in my face, and I groan; it feels as if it’s piercing my brain, the part of me that does not like to function at sunrise.

And I realize that it’s sunrise; I have to get up. I squeeze my eyes shut and wish that I had the day off. Of course I don’t have the day off. Farm girls don’t get days off. We have to force ourselves to be up, dressed, and breakfasted before you even have to consider being awake, and by the time you’re finally sitting on the edge of your bed, stretching and sighing, we’ve done more work than you’ll manage to do today.

I need to get up. I count to three out loud and force myself into a sitting position somehow. The sun is barely above the horizon. I win. I pull off my nightgown and reached blindly into my drawer to pull out undergarments, and after struggling in my dazed state to get them on properly, I pull on a work dress and my boots. I’m ready to go, damnit.

I creep into the hallway and down the stairs. There are still snores coming from my father’s room as I pass his door. I frown; this is the fifth day in a row that my father has slept in. I am afraid to say anything to him; he is getting older. But I now have to do more and more of his chores. I sigh to myself as I get the fire under the stove started. Soon, I have eggs and pancakes all ready for breakfast, and I set aside a fair amount for Dad; he’ll be down at some point, and he’ll just warm them in the oven.

Ingo walks in right as I put the final pancake on the top of the stack. Ingo sleeps in a small room built off of the main building, but my dad must have been drunk when he built it; the door leads outside, not inside, so Ingo has to exit and reenter the house. I like the arrangement because the creak in the door gives me fair warning.

Extra work bothers me, but it’s not the worst part about Dad sleeping really late and going to bed really early. The worst part is enduring the constant sexual harassment that has resulted from the lack of parental supervision.

I roll my eyes as Ingo starts openly at my chest and greets me with, “Good mornin’, sweet cakes.” He sits at my father’s place at the table, something that he knows ticks me off, and stuffs his napkin into his collar. It doesn’t hide the beer stains on his shirt.

“Good morning, Ingo,” I reply as I place the food on the table. I sit on the opposite side of the table. I consider sitting at an angle from him so that I don’t have to make eye-contact, but I’d rather be as far away as possible. I quickly take my share of food because I know that Ingo is going to devour the rest. He doesn’t reach for the food, though, and although I don’t know it, in a second, the harassment will get worse.

“Is something wrong?” I ask. I am asking in a concerned tone of voice, but an annoyed one.

“I’m waiting,” he replies, sticking his nose into the air. I snort at his appearance. He looks like the idiot that he is.

“For what?” I ask before putting a forkful of delicious (if I may say so myself) pancake into my mouth. If it weren’t for this awesome food I make, I wouldn’t be able to get anything done until lunch.

“My food, you simple wench,” Ingo sneers across the table. So now he wants me to serve him his breakfast?

I know that this is going to escalate quickly if I don’t get out of this kitchen. I pause for a moment and start to look frantically around the room. I spot a clean dishtowel and get up to grab it. My plan is to put my breakfast in it (it’s going to be messy) and eat it while I do my chores.

I lose my appetite as soon as I hear his chair moving. I feel him coming up behind me; what does he plan to do? I do the only thing that comes to mind. Shouting something about not being hungry, I managed to dash past Ingo and out the door.

He doesn’t follow me, and I thank the Goddesses. I hide in the loft for a few minutes to recover, but I know I have to do those damn chores. But even the chores are preferable to sitting at a table with a hungry Ingo, although for food or something else, I don’t know.

My father is becoming lazier and more distant, our ranch hand is becoming much bolder, and I continue to do all my chores, day in and day out. I drop down from the loft and brush the hay off of my dress and out of my hair. Epona’s stall is next to the ladder, and she reaches out to pull off some of the stray straws. Epona is one of my only two friends, and I’m thankful for the comfort that her attention brings. I hug her neck briefly and then begin my chores.