Since then, she had been working to pay for her mother’s medicine.
She had no time for parties.
No time for dating.
Not even for complicated dreams.
She simply lived day by day.
When I asked her to marry me, the words came out of my mouth almost without thinking.
I thought she would laugh.
But she didn’t.
She looked at me for a long time before answering.
— “If I say yes… people will talk.”
— “People always talk,” I told her.
We got married three months later.
It was a small wedding.
A few friends.
A few relatives.
And many judging eyes.
Daniela wore a simple white wedding dress that seemed almost too fragile for someone who had endured such a difficult life.
That night, we returned home.
The room had already been prepared.
Clean sheets.
Soft lighting.
Daniela sat on the edge of the bed, clearly nervous.
So was I.
Perhaps even more nervous than she was.
I closed the door and slowly walked toward her.
My hands trembled as I began unfastening the back of her dress.
She took a deep breath.
The dress slowly slipped to the floor.
And that was when I saw it.
There was something on her body.
Something I had not expected.
I stepped back.
Not because of shock.
But because of pain.
Because what stood before me was not the body of a young woman looking for an easy life.
It was the body of someone who had survived something terrible.
The entire room fell silent.
Daniela lowered her gaze, as if she already knew exactly what I had seen.
The silence in the room stretched so long that it almost felt alive.
Daniela kept her eyes lowered, her shoulders tense, as if she were waiting for something inevitable to happen. Perhaps she expected anger. Perhaps disgust. Or perhaps she had prepared herself for the moment when I would quietly walk away and prove everyone else right.
But I didn’t move.
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