She was only seventeen when she became a wife.
Too young to understand what marriage truly demanded, yet old enough to believe love alone could carry her through. She was naïve, hopeful—convinced that the charm he wore so effortlessly was protection, that his confidence would shield her from the world. Becoming his wife felt like an escape, a doorway opening into freedom. No more curfews. No more asking permission. He was her husband now, her provider, her safe place—or so she believed.
At first, he seemed attentive. He took her out, paid for the food she had once only dreamed of eating, indulged her cravings without complaint. For a while, it felt like bliss. A life she had earned through love.
Or perhaps, a life carefully staged.
One afternoon, he waved a fifty-dollar note in the air before placing it on the table.
“Here. Buy what you need from the market. I want you to cook me a meal for tomorrow.”
She nodded and took the money without question.
She was still a student then—classes from nine in the morning until four in the afternoon. Her days were already full, her energy stretched thin. Still, she told herself it would be fine. Eggs and rice would do. A simple meal. After all, she hadn’t been raised to cook elaborate dishes. On days her mother was busy, scrambled eggs were enough, and her father never complained.
That evening, when she served the meal, his expression hardened.
“Just eggs?” he said. “When I asked for a meal, I expected three dishes.”
“I had classes,” she replied honestly. “And fifty dollars doesn’t go very far.”
“Well,” he said coldly, “you’d try harder if you really wanted to. Cook properly tomorrow.”
There was no warmth in his voice. No understanding. The man she once believed to be her prince charming now spoke like a customer displeased with his order—and she, nothing more than the cook expected to please him.
Who was this man she had married?
Comments soon turned into condescending remarks.
From “Just this?” to “It’s so simple—yet you can’t even do it properly.”
Requests slowly became commands.
From “Shall we eat out?” to “Cook—or you don’t eat.”
Conversations dissolved into arguments. Arguments into shouting. And shouting became a familiar sound, echoing through her days until it no longer startled her. Because the pain left no bruises, she told herself it must be normal. This must be love. She endured it quietly, hoping her obedience would somehow resurrect the tenderness she once felt.
Months passed, and the insults never stopped.
Deep down, she knew something was wrong. She had never seen her father treat her mother this way. The realization lingered, heavy and unsettling. She thought about reaching out—about asking for help—but shame silenced her. This was the life she had chosen. The love she had defended. Surely, she had to endure it.
So she pushed the doubts aside, buried them beneath duty and denial, and whispered the lie she needed most to believe:
This is love.
//--- Please leave a comment if you want to read the next chapter. :)
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