I wish I could tell you I saw the red flags. That I knew what I was walking into. But I didn't. I didn't see a single one, not until it was too late. Until things got bad.
But for a while, things weren't bad. John and I were busy, always busy. We were working, laughing, playing house in our tiny apartment. We were a team. Or at least, that's what I thought.
And then November came. And with it, a little pink plus sign on a pregnancy test.
I was pregnant.
John was thrilled. I was stunned. I was terrified. But beneath the fear, there was a strange, quiet joy. Maybe this would be the start of something beautiful. Maybe this would make everything perfect.
I wanted to keep it a secret. At least at first. I wanted to tell my parents in my own time, in my own way. But secrets have a way of slipping free.
My sister and my cousin were over the day I found out. I couldn't help it. I told them. I made them promise to keep it quiet. Just for now. Just until I could figure out how to tell my parents without breaking their hearts.
My sister kept her word. My cousin didn't.
He told his mom (my mom's older sister). His mom told my mom. And the secret I had tried so hard to protect became town gossip in record time.
But it wasn't just gossip. It was a weapon. My mom's sister used it to take a shot at her:
"I didn't raise my kids to be religious like you, but at least they're not whores like your daughter."
Whore.
That was the word that flew around the family. Not "daughter." Not "mother-to-be." Not "young woman trying to find her way." Just "whore."
I didn't even get a chance to tell my mom. She pulled me aside before my great-uncle's funeral, her face pale and tight. "Are you pregnant?"
I felt like I was suffocating. I tried to explain, but the words felt heavy. I just nodded.
And she cried.
She cried during the funeral, but I couldn't tell if it was because of her uncle or because of me.
The shame didn't just burn —it crawled. Under my skin. Into my bones. A twisted, smothering heat that wouldn't let me breathe.
And that was the first time I realized something: No matter what I did, no matter how hard I tried to be good, to be loved, to be perfect. I would always be the villain in someone else's story.
I felt a deep, hollow ache of betrayal. Another knife in a year full of them. My sister's betrayal. My parents' cruelty. My cousin's gossip. It felt like every safe place I had was burning down.
Except for John.
John was my only constant. The one person who stayed. The one person who loved me, who didn't judge me, who told me I was perfect. He became my anchor. My escape.
And he knew it.
When he told me he was being deployed in February, it felt like the ground shifted under me. He wouldn't even be home when our baby was born. I was terrified. I couldn't imagine doing this without him. And he saw that fear. He saw it, and he used it.
""It's just practical," John said, his voice calm, his hands gentle. Always gentle. The perfect fiancé. The perfect protector. The perfect trap. "You need insurance for the baby. We can't afford to pay for a hospital birth out of pocket."
And he was right. I agreed. We needed insurance. But then he laid out the solution like a magician revealing the trick.
"We should get married. If we're married, everything is covered by my insurance. We'll get more pay. We can live on base housing. It just makes sense."
And he had a hundred other reasons. Good reasons. Smart reasons. We were already engaged. We were already planning to get married. Why wait? Why waste money on a big wedding when we could be practical?
I didn't even see it for what it was. I thought it was love. I thought it was him protecting me.
But it was control.
So we decided. We were getting married. Just a simple ceremony. Just us. No fuss. No drama. I didn't want to be alone when he deployed, and he didn't want me out of his control. It was perfect.
But then my parents found out. I don't even know how, but they did. The night before the ceremony, they drove up to the city where I lived. They took me to a diner.
I don't remember most of what they said. I remember staring at the laminated menu, not tasting anything. I remember ordering two slices of pie because I couldn't handle a full meal. I remember them trying to talk me out of it.
They told me they'd pay for a wedding. A real wedding. Something simple but nice. My grandma's backyard. My dad's uncle, who was ordained, could officiate. A real dress. Family. They had a whole plan.
I stared at them, trying to feel the love they claimed to have. But it didn't feel like love. It felt like another trap. Another cage. Another way to control me.
And I broke. I started crying, choking on the words.
""I don't want him to leave without being married. I can't... I can't do this without him."
And that was the truth. I didn't just want to be married, I needed to be married. Because marriage was safety. Marriage was love. Marriage was something they couldn't take away.
John wasn't just a man. He was my escape. My salvation. My safety net.
And I didn't see that he was also the next cage.