The river was more of a lover than her husband ever would be. It kissed away the wounds on her hands from spluttering oils and scrubbing sweat-drenched clothing. Cooled her head in the sultry summer and cleansed her of the the day's woes. Every afternoon she was embraced by the waters with more respect and affection than any man was capable of. She was the river's child, sister, and wife. And she wouldn't have it any other way.
As a river child, she suffered, like they all do. Those loved by the river are powerless under the world's cruel tide. But the river gave her the shoulders to bare that burden. Strength was engraved in her being, even if experience didn't allow it.
Her feet were calloused from tending to the fields and the house. She played, laughed and sung with the force of a sun. And despite her terribly methodical life of cleaning and appeasing a husband she never asked for, she still was happy.