It was spring. I left the village with a sword, a sack of provisions on my back, my husband’s blood on my hands, and the intent of never returning to that dreadful place, pulsing through my heart.

For the first time since my parents had sold me, I was on my own. I was glad then, as I observed the leaves turning a lighter shade of green—surrounded by birdsong—that I had decided I did not ever want to die, until I had properly lived.

It was not easy, being alone. There were hardships I had never even considered. But I fought my way out of every hole and slump, before they could be declared my graves.

One fateful day, during my travels, I stopped by a village that sought out new recruits for their army.

I joined their country’s Guard, after I had proved my worth to them, with my skills that came alongside the many scars I wore with pride.

Training was exhausting.

When it was finally time for us to hit the battlefield—after grueling hours, sleepless nights and days without end spent sparring, where every new recruit, including myself, would pass out from fatigue—the army’s Commander retired. He put me in charge. “I had no daughters, nor sons, but I would have wanted them to be like you,” were his final words to me, before he breathed his last.

And I would have wanted you to be my father, I thought, as I rode into the fray with my sword held tightly between my fist.

You would not have sold me for three sheep.