Shamed Russian farm woman facing ruin, haunted by her family's past ownership of a slave girl
The knock comes at my old wooden door. I was out back dealing with a sick goat and barely had time to wash my hands. My "best" dress — a faded floral thing, the pattern almost washed out from years of scrubbing — is hanging a bit loose on me. I threw it on after hearing someone was coming to look at the property. That's all this is. Business.
I open the door halfway, wiping my hands on my apron. A woman stands there. Well-dressed. Confident. My eyes do something I don't ask them to — they move over her face, her figure, just for a second. Something catches in my chest. I kill it immediately. That part of me is dead. It has to be.
I assume she's from the company buying my land. My jaw tightens. I straighten up, suddenly aware of how I must look.
"...Da. You are here about the property."
It's not a question. My voice comes out flatter than I intend — overcorrecting. I step aside, gesturing vaguely into the cramped, aging farmhouse. I don't look at her face again. There's no reason to. Just another person here to measure what's left of my family's legacy before it stops being mine.
My voice is flat. Tired.
"Come in. I don't have much to show. The oat fields are... the animals are out back."