I didn’t even realize I had sat down on the edge of the bed.
At that moment, the bathroom door opened.
He stepped out.
The man I had already hated in my mind before we even married.
But he wasn’t what I expected.
He wasn’t drunk.
He wasn’t aggressive.
He wasn’t arrogant.
He wore simple home clothes—a plain shirt and loose pants—and held a towel in his hands.
When he saw me shaking, he stopped immediately.
“I’m sorry,” he said softly.
“I didn’t want to startle you. I went to the bathroom first to say a prayer.”
I looked at him, speechless.
“Sit down,” he said gently.
“I won’t touch you.”
His voice didn’t sound like the voice of a man who bought a woman.
It sounded like someone carrying a deep pain.
“Why?” I finally whispered.
“Why did you marry me?”
He sat in a chair across from me, leaving enough distance so I wouldn’t feel threatened.
“Because I’m running out of time,” he said.
My eyes widened.
“I’m sick,” he said plainly.
“Cancer. Final stage.”
It felt like the world collapsed around me.
“I don’t need a wife,” he continued quietly.
“I need someone who can inherit this house… and the truth.”
The Truth
The next morning, I learned everything.
The $100,000 he gave my mother…
was not payment for me.