The night before her wedding she was throwing up. It wasn’t entirely clear if the queasiness she felt was from her sudden departure from childhood into the land of adults, or the fact that she didn’t care very much for her fiance. Oh, he was fine, and certainly much better than the one Martina had married, but he drank too much, and he smelled, and although he didn’t hit her, he was rude. Perhaps that was just the best the world had to offer, it certainly seemed that way, but she could still feel sick about it, and she did. In the morning, the thin gray light came in through the window along with the sound of the chickens being slaughtered for the feast–the whole village would be in attendance after all–and suddenly she felt better. It wasn’t happiness or anything, but there was a peaceful understanding. This was her life. You do not have any choice but to live it. She walked downstairs where her mother greeted her with warm bread and a pat on the hand, and did not even ask her to put on her boots to do any errands. Perhaps she would even grown fond of him, she thought as she sipped her morning tea out of a thick, chipped mug.
And later, after everything was done, there was this:
Nine months later she had a BABYYYYYYY! (Thanks for the tip, Paul.)