It was during the roar of the textile boom, in the restless middle of the 1800s, that I came to Fall River, Massachusetts, a city swelling with mills and money. The streets choked with the dust of cloth, the air a restless hum of machinery, the promise of fortune rising with the smoke. It was here that I was delivered into the hands of the Bordens, a family of wealth and frugality.
Before that, I had lived with a farmer deep in the New Hampshire woods. He was a man who worked the land as though it owed him something, his cart often groaning with the weight of his harvests. My brothers and sisters had already been scattered to their own fates by then, but I remained until he decided I, too, could bring him profit. When winter edged close, he loaded his cart: stacked wood for the hearths of others, the stiff carcasses of deer and moose felled in the forest, a barrel of syrup thick as amber, and the last of last year’s apples, their skins puckered and sagging.
We traveled south, the road long and bitter with cold, and when we reached Fall River, the farmer struck his bargains. Coins clinked into his hand for every trade, his eyes shining with the weight of gold more than with satisfaction. And then, almost as an afterthought, I was included in the transaction. He had no further use for me, not on this trip, not in his future. I was passed along like a silent witness, another commodity, my worth measured not in purpose but in the extra sum I added to his bounty.
The Bordens’ home stood on 2nd Street—three stories of upright modesty, neither grand nor shabby, its bones practical and unadorned. Beneath it lay the basement, a cool cavern where meat swung from hooks and fruits and vegetables rested in their jars, preserved against rot. My own quarters were far humbler, a narrow chamber clinging to the back of the house, as if I were an afterthought.
Coal fed the boiler in the cellar, its fire always smoldering, while the ash box beside it overflowed with the ghost-gray remains of burned fuel. The air was never quite clean; it carried the tang of soot, the dry rasp of coal dust, the faint metallic tang of heat. Though the house stood solid, its walls betrayed it—thin enough that voices, footsteps, and quarrels bled from room to room, from pinnacle to pit.
Through those walls, I learned the rhythms of the household. I often heard Sullivan, the maid, her steps pounding up and down the staircase as she dragged the heavy pan of ashes toward the basement. The thump of her work shoes was a constant drumbeat, and the scrape of her shovel carried sharply into my chamber. On the days when the pushcart collector came, his arrival announced by the rattle of wheels and the murmur of bartered words, Sullivan would seize me in her rough hands. Together we pounded the sides of the metal bin, striking until the last clinging soot tumbled free. The sound rang hollow and metallic, reverberating through my frame, leaving behind bruises, scratches, and small indignities that no one noticed but me.
When the collector departed, coins changed hands—two dimes and one nickel, gleaming faintly in the dust. Mr. Borden, ever frugal, would pluck the dimes into his pocket, the metal disappearing as if swallowed whole. He allowed Sullivan the nickel, a concession she accepted with quiet resignation. For all her labor, that was all she received.
And me? I received nothing. No coin, no kindness. Only scars, reminders etched into me that I was still, and would always be, a tool.
Andrew’s wife, Sarah, brought two daughters into the world—Emma first, and, nine years later, Lizzie. Their lives unfolded within the walls of the Borden house, and I was drawn into their stories as surely as if I had been another member of the family. Sullivan, ever the commanding hand of the household, directed me and others to fashion what the family required: furniture for the nursery, doorways connecting the nanny’s room to each child’s chamber. I was not merely present; I was put to work shaping the world that the girls would grow within.
As Emma and Lizzie grew, so too did my purpose. Each season of their lives brought new demands, and I was expected to ensure that no whim or need went unmet. Dressers to store their growing wardrobes, chests for bedding ad a few cherished dolls, shelves to hold their books, and all the scattered little things that children believe they cannot live without—all of it passed through my keeping. Sullivan’s voice carried sharply across the rooms, issuing instructions that kept me in constant motion. The Borden family’s comfort was the law of the house, and I obeyed without question.
I was there for moments of laughter, when giggles spilled down hallways like sunlight through a cracked shutter. I was there, too, for grief, when the air turned heavy and the sound of footsteps slowed with sorrow. Sometimes, I was forgotten for hours, left in my small back chamber as life rushed elsewhere, until I was summoned again. I knew the weight of loss the day Sarah died. The hush of the house was unlike any other silence, and I was called forward to shoulder the burden of the casket. Death, like birth, left its imprint on me.
Emma, not yet ten years old, took on responsibilities beyond her tender years. Her childhood narrowed as she became second mother to her baby sister. Her frustrations wore grooves into her once-gentle nature, transforming her from a kind, affectionate child into a girl quick to snap, her patience always fraying. I, along with my quasi-brother tools, and companions, bore the brunt of her shifting moods. One moment, she was tender and soft-spoken; the next, her voice struck like a lash, her hands moving sharply as if the world had become too much for her small frame to hold.
Time hardened Emma into a devout and timid young woman. She lived by strict rules, her intelligence and religious dedication guiding her into the role expected of her. From an early age, she was marked as a prize of her lineage, an eighth-generation daughter of an elite family. I overheard her father speak of her as a “good catch,” the phrase dropped into conversations with his business associates as though she were part of his estate. But after Andrew remarried, Emma’s life tightened under the weight of stricter expectations. Abby, her stepmother, carried with her suspicions and disputes, especially over land Emma believed was stolen from her inheritance. The tension sharpened Emma’s reserve. She was not considered a beauty, not in the way society demanded, and few suitors came calling. Perhaps that mattered less to her than the bitterness she felt toward Abby. In the quiet hours when Andrew was away, the walls shook with arguments, women’s voices rising and falling in sharp crescendos. I was always close enough to feel those tempests, drawn unwillingly into their storms.