My name is Anna. All my life, my father treated me like a prized asset—every decision was calculated for status, not happiness. He kept saying, “You’ll thank me one day. It’s not about love—it’s about strength.” But his definition of what was “best” felt suffocating. By 30, I was desperate to break free.
One chilly October afternoon, I fled to the city streets. I didn’t know where I was going—just away. That’s when I saw him: a janitor sweeping leaves quietly, each stroke deliberate, almost meditative. His calm drew me in.
On impulse, I approached him. My voice trembled: “I need a husband. How would you feel about getting married today?” I explained my father’s manipulation—it was a contract, not love. After a pause, he shook my hand. “I’m Ethan. Deal.”
An hour later, we were married at city hall. No flowers, no fanfare—just two strangers bound by a shared escape.
When my father found out, he couldn’t suppress his fury. He demanded to meet my “husband.” At our modest apartment, Ethan stood firm and truthful—qualities my father had abandoned long ago. Then, Ethan shared something he knew: years ago, my father betrayed his own father in business. In that moment, the powerful facade shattered. My father, pride broken, fell to his knees—and I saw genuine remorse in his eyes.
That’s when I knew this was no longer about rebellion—it was about finding a love rooted in truth, humility, and mutual respect. And in saving myself, I might just have helped him, too.
