It was a humid afternoon in the cramped living room of our old family home when my father firmly announced he had arranged my marriage.
I sat there, feeling the weight of his words settle heavily in the space, the sun slipping past the cracked window casting shadows on the peeling wallpaper.
He was resolute, and the man he forced me to marry was a homeless stranger from the edge of town.
No one asked for my consent or even my thoughts.
This moment—that quiet imposition—felt normal in its cruelty, but something about the way my father refused to see me as anything but a burden made a chill run through me.
Every day since then, my routine stuck to a rigid pattern.
I woke before dawn to help my father with his small workshop, navigated the glare of neighbors’ pity, and endured the loneliness that settled deeper with every passing year.
My blindness made every step uncertain, and my father’s presence loomed large, like a shadow I could never outrun.
I learned to suppress my anger and confusion, knowing resistance meant more silence and harsher control.
My life felt like a collection of small, measured sufferings with no space for hope.
