The backstory is much shorter and slightly less illogical, now. Still no promises on how this is going to end. Or when. But I still swear that I will finish it. I have not forgotten.
(Edit: I'm messing with a timeline, so I've fixed her age a bit.)
Emma Stynton had grown up in a typical immigrant family. Her parents and sister, Eleanor were three of the thousands of Dutch immigrants to leave their home and country for the hopes of a better life in America. Settling in Brooklyn, they made a home in a crowded tenement houses, and quietly continued their lives. They didn't bother to learn English. In fact, their traditions and rituals were practically unchanged within the large Dutch enclave where they found themselves. The only real alteration had been Emma, who made her unexpected presence known several months after her parents had settled. She was born on August 15, 1883, the same year that the Brooklyn bridge was completed. Her father called her "de zoet verrassing." (The sweet surprise)
Though she spoke only Dutch with her family, Emma's education and culture had been markedly American. Her parents worked long days in the factory, and though her sister stayed home, sewing or doing small embroidery projects for commission, she was not a very contentious nanny. Emma spent her early years exploring fire escapes and the neighborhood games of marbles and dice. There, the children spoke in a broken mixture of Dutch and English, so that she could not say which was her first language.
As she grew, she helped her sister keep the house, and delivered Eleanor's finished commissions. Delivering packages was her greatest joy, allowing her to go far and deep into the city some days. She was inquisitive and bold, often stupidly so. Her sister would scold and shame her when she came home with a black eye or torn clothes, but she liked the feel and grit of city, no matter how mean it could be. Her father would shake his head, amused and bewildered by her love for New York, a place he did not, and could not, know.
At eleven, she had a dirty mouth and leather skin from her time spent in the alleys and streets. Eleanor was engaged and her mother and father were making ends meet. The family was happy.
When her father passed away quietly in the winter of her twelfth year, the family was lost. Eleanor was married and had been living with her new husband for several months. Frightened and bereaved, Mrs. Stynton clung to Emma as though a moment's repose would take the rest of her family from her as well. Emma tried to comfort her mother, but slowly, the constant nearness began to stifle her. She missed the streets and the rough crowds. Her mother's health began to decline, and soon the factory made it known that she was no longer needed. At Eleanor's request, Mrs. Stynton moved in with them, but with a baby of her own on the way, Eleanor's small apartment wasn't really big enough for a fifth party, and Emma knew it.
She found a job and an apartment with a group of girls, and by her thirteenth birthday, she was on her own. She knew her mother worried about her, and that her mother's worries burdened her sister with guilt, but she was content. She made enough to buy food. Lodgings were clean, if crowded. The work was mind-numbing and physically demanding, but she could follow her own rules and take care of her own problems.
There, in the midst of the hard labor and crowded nights, she grew into her own mind.
Review, please.