The Contract
I signed.
My hand trembled over the paper as if it weren’t mine, as if someone were pushing it from the outside. The lawyer cleared his throat with impatience. The pen scraped the air, ready to pierce my life.
Three thousand pesos.
That was what my future was worth. Three thousand pesos to bury my father and to keep my mother and siblings from freezing in the Durango highlands. Three thousand pesos for me, Lucía Montoya, nineteen years old, sold—yes, sold—to a widower at a ranch in Chihuahua whom I had never seen.
The lawyer, Don Eusebio Salgado, didn’t even look up. “Do you understand what you are accepting?” “Yes,” I said, but the word got stuck in my throat. “Say it for the record.”
I felt the bitter taste of ash on my tongue. My father had been dead for three days. My mother hadn’t eaten for two. My older brother, Mateo, was already talking about going into the mines like Dad did before he got sick. My little sister Camila was only eight and coughed as if every breath would break her. And little Paz, only five, wouldn’t let go of my mother’s skirt.
I swallowed hard and said it, like someone cutting their own chest open: “I agree to marry Gael Arriaga, of the Arroyo Plata Hacienda, in exchange for three thousand pesos paid to my family… and I accept this arrangement… voluntarily.“
“Voluntarily.” The word burned me.
Don Eusebio stamped the document with a dry seal. “The carriage leaves tomorrow at dawn. Mr. Arriaga’s foreman will pick you up in town. The wedding takes place as soon as you arrive. That is all. What did you expect, Miss Montoya? A courtship?” He finally looked at me. “You are not a bride. You are a solution. There are five motherless children. A ranch to run. You need money. Everyone gets something.”
Choice is for the rich, I thought. We only had hunger.
The Departure
I left with my legs feeling disconnected, and the November wind lashed my face. Outside, my mother, Elena, was huddled, her eyes swollen from crying and her hands red from rubbing them for warmth. “Done?” she asked in a voice that sounded like someone much older. “Done.” Her face crumbled. “Lucía… I…” “Don’t apologize,” I cut her off, harder than I intended. “It doesn’t change anything.” “If there were another way…” “There isn’t. We both know that.”
I turned toward the borrowed cart. We had to pack. We had to sell even our memories. That night I locked myself in the room where I had slept since I was a child. My life fit in one trunk: three dresses, my mother’s Bible, an old novel I liked, and a photo of my father before the illness left his eyes sunken.
A knock on the door. It was Mateo. He was fifteen, but twenty years of weight already sat on his shoulders. “I know what you did,” he said. “You sold yourself.” “I made an arrangement.” “It’s the same thing.” He grabbed my shoulders. “You can’t. I’ll work. I’ll go into the mine.” “The mine killed Dad.” “Lucía…” He took my wrists. “If I don’t do this, you all die. It’s that simple.”
He cried silently, hugging me as if he wanted to break my fate with his arms. “Promise me you’ll write.” “I promise. You promise me you’ll take care of Mom and the girls.”
Arrival at Arroyo Plata
The journey took three days through frozen roads. At the village of San Jerónimo, a man was waiting for me. “I am Efraín Beltrán, foreman of Arroyo Plata. Don Gael sent me.”
Gael didn’t come himself. The sting was ridiculous, but it existed: a tiny part of me expected at least to see the man who had paid for my life. “A storm is coming,” Efraín said, looking at the horizon. “The first big one of the season.”
As we traveled, I asked about the children. Efraín’s voice softened as he described them:
Tadeo (9): Acts like he’s forty, trying to hold the house together.
Rocío (7): Hasn’t spoken since she saw her mother die.
Iván (5): A good boy, but feels invisible.
Inés (3): Afraid of everything.
Elena (2.5): The baby, the only light left in the house.
“And Don Gael?” I asked. “He is a good man,” Efraín replied. “But when his wife died… something died inside him too. He’s not buying a wife. He’s buying a chance for his children not to break completely.”
The hacienda was a large adobe house with smoke rising from the chimney. When I arrived, a little girl—Inés—ran out and froze. I knelt to her level. “Hi. I’m Lucía.” She touched my face with a tiny finger. “Pretty…” she whispered, grabbing my hand as if I might disappear.
“I know why you’re here,” a cold voice said. It was Tadeo, the nine-year-old with old eyes. “Then you know more than I do,” I replied.
Then, Gael Arriaga appeared. He was twenty-nine, but grief had carved his face like stone. “Miss Montoya.” “Don Gael.”
The Terms of the House
He took me to the barn to speak privately. “I didn’t want this,” he said, his voice rasping. “I resisted for two years. But the children… they are breaking.” He looked at me directly. “Does it disgust you?” “It doesn’t disgust me,” I said, thinking of my dead father. “It makes me sad. For everyone.”
I asked him if he would treat me with respect and if I was expected to share his bed. “Never… unless you want to. Never if you don’t wish it,” he promised. “The priest comes tomorrow at nine. After that, you’ll be my wife on paper. The house is yours to run. I am not good company, Lucía.”
Inside, the house was a tomb. I found the children by the fire, silent and hollow. I went straight to the kitchen. “I’ll cook,” I told Tadeo. “I don’t need help.” “I didn’t say you needed it. I said show me where the things are.”
We worked in silence. Dinner was simple—potatoes, eggs, and beans—but it was hot. The children ate as if it were a treasure. Later, when Gael entered, I told him bluntly: “Tadeo is exhausted. He’s a child carrying a house. They are all scared.”
“I became someone I don’t recognize after she died,” Gael confessed, his face hardened with shame. “I scared them.” “Ask them for forgiveness,” I told him. “They think everything is their fault.”
The Change
The wedding was short and cold. “Is she my mom now?” Iván asked. I knelt down. “I didn’t give you life, but I will take care of you just the same. I promise.” “Do you make pancakes?” “Yes. With honey.” He nodded, satisfied.
A great storm trapped us inside for three days. I invented games, told stories, and baked bread. Slowly, the tension began to melt. One night, Iván dropped a plate of soup and began to tremble, begging not to be hit. Gael looked at him and said, “It’s just soup, son. You are not a mistake.” For the first time, the house breathed.
The miracle happened with Rocío. I was singing a song my mother used to sing, and a tiny, broken voice joined in. Rocío was crying. “I was afraid if I spoke, I would forget my mom’s voice,” she sobbed. “You won’t forget her,” I told her. “She lives in you.”
When Gael saw Rocío speaking and hugging him, he looked at me with eyes that said “thank you” without needing words.
From Contract to Home
The town gossiped. A woman named Martha Paredes came to the house to tell me I would never replace the “deceased.” “I didn’t come to replace anyone,” I told her. “I came to build something new.”
That night, Gael confessed: “Lucía… I am starting to love you. You stayed, and you didn’t try to erase my wife. You just held us up when we were falling.” “I’m staying too,” I whispered. “But not because of the paper.”
Spring arrived. The snow turned to mud, and the house was no longer a tomb. I realized I was pregnant. When I told Gael, he hugged me as if I might fly away. “I won’t lose you,” he vowed.
Our daughter, Marina, was born in May. The other five children welcomed her with curiosity and love. That night, Gael sat with me. “A year ago, I ‘bought’ you,” he said. “What a horrible word.” “It was,” I admitted. “And yet… what I found is priceless.”
I smiled, exhausted and happy. “I signed thinking my life was ending. I was wrong. It was just changing shape.”
Outside, the ranch breathed. Inside, the house was full of life. The town would always remember the rumor of the “sold girl,” but the truth was stronger: Sometimes life starts with a contract and ends by becoming a home.