I was too far, too young, to make the journey home safely for the funeral. It was a time of chaos. After my parents died, hardly anything was left of my dowry which my father’s aunt had been keeping for me, she said. The plague had upset everyone’s position, nothing was as before, it made my head dizzy. If your father had not died so quickly, damn his taste for the drink, we’d be better off, but every time I roll the dice, I lose a little more. My grandparents had lands as far as the eye could see, beautiful lands, vineyards too, I think. If we go pick berries in the forest, I’ll get lost. I love berries, and they come for free. Would you know the way home?

Now we live in a room under the roofs. At least we are safe. You will need to learn a trade. Why don’t you want to spin? It’s easy, and not so tiring. You are strange. You would think you’re a foundling, you are so unlike me, but I know you came out of my body. Recently, I noticed a new mole on your neck, in the shape of a bear. We need to show it to the healer, without fail. It might promise a charmed destiny. Or more disasters. Let’s not think of what’s ahead. We’ll stop at the tavern and buy a barrel, I hate being thirsty. My sister was always smart. She did better for herself, with her barber of a husband. You are clever too, like her. She goes the other way when she sees me in the street. You won’t do that, will you, even if you marry well? Just this morning, a well-to-do captain in the army made me an offer. For my hand! What a strike of luck. He’s the weaver’s nephew. She took him to the fountain to see the women. I didn’t notice, I was washing my hair. He chose me. Of all the women doing their washing at the fountain! I wonder if he liked my white arms that are still quite round, see?

He’s nicely fat, and a thick red beard covers his face which could be less coarse, I have to say. Because campaigns and expeditions will keep him away in the good season, he wants a woman waiting at the door when he comes back in the fall. All we’ll need to do is keep house. I wonder what color is his uniform, and how much he earns. We could get out of this dirty garret. I want to say yes. Yes, please. Or will this roll of the dice bring more misfortune?

This is the 67th of 100 women who talk to their daughters over 2500 years.

Some other stories, before the Crusades:

The 56th woman is a powerful preacher, as was common in medieval times. The 55th woman was upset at her father’s trade. The 54th woman tells a fairy tale about aging. The 53rd woman, having climbed up socially, rejects her own mother. The 52nd woman‘s sister, a smart and lucky business woman, raises the status of her niece. The 51st woman leads the hard life of a hunchback. The 50th woman’s mind is as feeble as her back. The 49th mother explains why women should not fish. The 48th woman finds refuge in a fishing village. The 47th mother lulls her baby with an optimistic song. The 46th mother rebells against the wealthy.

It all starts here: first thread, and the last stories will take place in … present day America.