The Mountain Man became terrified of infants.
The Mountain Woman considered this revenge from the universe.
The first night their daughter refused to sleep, the enormous Mountain Man paced the cabin holding her against his chest.
The baby screamed.
He looked helpless.
The Mountain Woman sat in bed.
“You’ve faced wolves.”
“They don't do this.”
“She's hungry.”
“I fed her.”
“You cannot feed her.”
“I gave her milk.”
The Mountain Woman laughed despite exhaustion.
Eventually, the baby slept in his arms.
The Mountain Man did not move for nearly an hour because he feared waking her.
The Mountain Woman watched.
The same enormous hands that once terrified strangers now cradled a child as though holding breath itself.
Years later, their daughter inherited her mother’s body.
Broad.
Strong.
Heavy.
At twelve, children in town noticed.
Children could be cruel with impressive efficiency.
One boy called her “ox girl.”
The daughter came home silent.
The Mountain Woman recognized the silence immediately.
She found her behind the barn.
“What happened?”
“Nothing.”
The Mountain Woman sat beside her.
The girl finally whispered.
“They say I'm fat.”
The Mountain Woman looked toward the mountain.
“How observant.”
Her daughter stared.
The Mountain Woman smiled.
“You are.”
The girl’s eyes filled.
The Mountain Woman continued:
“So am I.”
“That isn't all we are.”
The daughter looked down.
The Mountain Woman touched her hand.
“People will take whatever is most visible and pretend it explains everything.”
“They did it to your father.”
“Big.”
“Scarred.”
“Dangerous.”
“They did it to me.”
“Fat.”
“Slow.”
“Too much.”
She squeezed her daughter's hand.
“Let them be lazy thinkers.”
“You don't have to join them.”
The daughter wiped tears.
“Did you hate being big?”
The Mountain Woman thought honestly.
“Sometimes.”
“Do you now?”
She looked toward the cabin.
The Mountain Man stood on the porch.
Watching.
Giving them privacy.
“No.”
The Mountain Woman smiled.
“It carried me somewhere I needed to go.”
Her daughter frowned.
“Where?”
The Mountain Woman pointed toward the mountain trail.
“Up there.”
Later that evening, the daughter asked her father whether he thought she was too big.
The Mountain Man nearly dropped his cup.
“No.”
The girl laughed.
“You answered fast.”
“Yes.”
“Mother says being big isn't bad.”
“Your mother is right about most things.”
The Mountain Woman called from the kitchen:
“Most?”
The Mountain Man closed his eyes.
Their daughter laughed.
Life moved.
The Mountain Woman became older.
Her knees hurt more in winter.
The Mountain Man’s shoulder ached where an old injury returned whenever storms approached.
Their children grew.
The cabin became the center of a family nobody had expected from either of them.
People still occasionally asked how they met.
The Mountain Man hated the story.
The Mountain Woman loved telling it.
“He tried to kill me with chores.”
“I did not.”
“He made me climb six miles carrying my own bag.”
“You carried a satchel.”
“He stared while I fell.”