Somehow, that night, my parents convinced me to wait. A real wedding in January. A dress. A ceremony. Family. I went home feeling... not free, but hopeful. Like I had a say in my own life again.
So when I got home, I told John. "We're going to wait. We can get married in January."
It was our first fight. Our first real fight.
Normally, when a man is mad at a woman, he sleeps on the couch. But not John. No, he told me I couldn't sleep in our bed. Our bed—the one my parents bought me, the one from my house. He made me sleep on the couch.
But I told myself it was just a fight. That this was normal. That he was just hurt.
Then his parents arrived. His mother, Kay, showed up at eleven the next morning, all smiles and expectations. Because she thought we were getting married that day. I tried to explain that we were waiting, but she didn't want to hear it.
"You selfish little brat," she snapped. "Making my son think you were going to marry him. Do you have any idea how hurt he is?"
She wasn't just upset. She was furious. The air in the room was thick with it. I tried to explain. I tried to stand my ground. But John joined in.
Between Kay's rage and John's accusations, I didn't stand a chance. It wasn't a conversation—it was an assault.
I wasn't good enough for him. I wasn't loyal. I was a liar, a manipulator. I was cruel for letting him think we were getting married and then changing my mind.
They badgered me. Hammered me. Pushed and pushed until I couldn't breathe. Until my own thoughts felt like noise.
"Fine!" I snapped. "Fine! We'll get married. Let's just get it over with."
I was angry. But beneath the anger was something else—something raw and desperate. I didn't even know who I was anymore. All I knew was that I was tired. So, so tired.
We already had the paperwork. So we filled it out. We drove to the courthouse. His parents followed, their car right behind ours, a silent reminder of the pressure pushing down on me.
The courthouse was cold. Impersonal. I was wearing an ugly green shirt, my hair was a mess. There were no flowers, no music, no joy. Just John, his parents, and his best friend—who was drunk.
The judge read the vows. I repeated them. The words felt thick in my mouth, like trying to speak through a fog. I wasn't happy. I wasn't sad. I was just... empty.
My biggest thought wasn't "I love him" or "I'm so lucky." It was, "Well, at least I can get a divorce if this doesn't work out."
Don't get married if your only thought is, "At least I can get a divorce."
"You may kiss your bride," the judge said.
He kissed me. There was no joy in it. Just possession. I could feel it in the way he gripped my shoulders, in the way his lips pressed against mine—like he was claiming me.
His mother took pictures. The saddest pictures I've ever seen. I'm not smiling. I'm not happy. I look like a prisoner. And John doesn't look happy either. He looks... satisfied.
Possessive.
Like he's won.
We drove in separate vehicles to dinner. John and I in his car, his parents and his best friend in another. The courthouse was behind us, but the weight of what I'd just done was sitting on my chest like a stone.
As we drove, John looked over at me, his voice calm, almost casual. "You should call your parents. Tell them what we did."
I didn't even think about it. I just did it. Because that's what I did—I obeyed. I tried to be good. I tried to make everyone happy.
The phone rang. My mom answered.
"Hello?"
And suddenly, I couldn't breathe. The words felt thick, like I was choking on them. But I forced them out.
"I just got married, Mom."
Silence. A heartbeat of quiet. Then her voice, cracking, breaking. Tears.
I couldn't handle it. I hung up.
My mom was crying, and I hung up.
I didn't speak to my parents for weeks. I couldn't. Every time I thought about them, shame clawed at my chest. Because I had told them I would wait. I had promised. I had let them convince me, and then I had betrayed them.
But that's the thing. Everyone thought I had betrayed them. My parents. My siblings. My cousins. Even my friends.
"Why didn't you invite me?"
"I thought I'd be your maid of honor!"
"You didn't even tell me?"
It was like I had taken a knife to every relationship I had. But no one understood. No one saw the truth.
In their minds, I had hurt them. In my mind, I was alone.
I didn't want to explain. I didn't want to try to make them understand that I wasn't rebelling, I wasn't being selfish—I was drowning. I was crushed beneath the weight of everyone's expectations, everyone's judgment.
The pressure. The constant, suffocating pressure.
John's mother calling me a "selfish little brat."
John making me sleep on the couch for daring to change my mind.
The endless pushing, the badgering, the shame.
I didn't want to tell them that I hadn't chosen this—I had surrendered to it.
And John saw it. He knew. Because now he was the only one I had left. The only person who hadn't turned away from me. The only person who told me I was loved, who told me I was his.
Even as I sat in that crowded restaurant with his parents, even as his mother beamed and his father laughed and his best friend joked, I felt so desperately, horribly alone.
I had never felt more like a prisoner.
But I didn't see it that way. Not then. I told myself I was free. I was an adult. I was a married woman. I was in love.
But I wasn't free. I was owned. And I didn't even know it.