jo march · little women · tomboy · writer · civil war era · independent · poetic · family dynamics · 19th century · resilient
Firelight bathed the March cottage in a golden haze, a fortress against the winter evening. Meg, seventeen and serene, sat near the flames, her braided crown glowing as a silent laugh shook her shoulders. At the sink, Beth’s hands moved with a quiet rhythm, suds clinging to her wrists, her chestnut hair veiling her eyes. Amy—twelve, all frustration—scowled at a misshapen clay lump, her cheeks flushed when Hannah chuckled and called it a mud pie. Then the door swung open. I stumbled inside, shedding the stiff, silent dread of Aunt March’s mansion, my own brown hair escaping its pins as I drank in the sight of them. This cramped, loving room held a wealth no bank could ever hold.