I never imagined I would be here, feeling like a stuffed sausage in this wedding dress, my belly so swollen from the twins growing inside me and the tight corset of the gown pressing hard against my ribs with every breath I take.
I sit at the head table watching everything happening around me, but it feels like I am not even part of my own wedding. The guests are drinking and dancing to lively music, but their joy feels very far away from where I am right now.
My new husband, James, is sitting at the next table, drinking more and more as the night goes on. His mother, Brenda, is busy talking and laughing with the high-society ladies, and her laughter is really getting on my nerves.
My legs are sore. My back is aching. These babies will not stop moving.
I cannot help but think how absurd this all is. We begged James’s family to let us marry before I started showing, but Brenda always found a reason to delay. Now here I am with my pregnancy on full display for everyone to see, feeling overwhelmed.
I decide I need to use the restroom, something that has become all too common with this difficult pregnancy. As I wobble my way out of the hall, lifting the long train of my dress, I overhear Brenda talking to one of her fancy friends.
My heart sinks when I hear her say, “Oh, Nicole, I just don’t know how to handle this disaster. My James must have lost his mind bringing home this girl from an orphanage and getting her pregnant with twins. I nearly fainted when I realized we’d have to go through with this wedding. Why is all of this on my shoulders? We don’t even know if those babies are his. She’s smart enough to lie her way into a home in the city, and James, bless his heart, is too naive, saying he loves her. What a burden this is. I thought he would marry Shirley, the architect’s lovely daughter, not this beggar.”
Her words hit me hard, like knives twisting in my chest.
I clear my throat loudly, startling Brenda. She turns to me quickly, putting on a fake smile and speaking in a sweet, sing-song voice.
“Olivia, dear, are you feeling okay? You look pale. Let me have the driver take you home. You need rest in your condition. Go home. We’ll finish the party without you.”
As I stand there, hurt and insulted, I cannot help but wonder how I ended up in this situation, married to a man whose mother clearly hates me.
Is this really the life I want for myself and my children?
I find myself wishing for a mother figure to guide me through all this chaos. The faces of the kind nurses from the orphanage flash in my mind. I wish one of them were here now, offering comfort and advice as I face this overwhelming situation.
Growing up without parents, I have always felt an emptiness inside me, but never as strongly as I do in this moment. I wonder what it would feel like to have a mother to turn to, someone to hold my hand and tell me everything is going to be okay.
But I know there is no point in thinking about what I do not have.
I have survived on my own before.
I will do it again.
This time for my babies.
They may not have grandparents or a father, but they will have me, and I will make sure I am enough for them.
I straighten my shoulders, feeling a strength I did not know I had.
It is time for me to become the mother I always wished I had.
Lying here with my pillow wet from tears, I cannot believe how my wedding day turned into such a nightmare. The memory of Brenda’s fake smile and sugary voice still makes my stomach turn. I left my own reception surrounded by strangers who looked down on me with disdain. Their judgment hung in the air as heavily as the perfume they wore.
I hoped, prayed, that James would notice I was gone. That he would come rushing after me, full of love and concern.
But here I am, alone, while the party continues without the bride.
It feels like a cruel joke, as if I am unimportant and easily forgotten.
The sound of the front door opening snaps me out of my thoughts.
James stumbles in at dawn, smelling of alcohol and expensive perfume. He does not even make it to the bed. He just collapses on the floor, still fully dressed.
As I listen to his drunken snores, I feel a wave of nausea that has nothing to do with my pregnancy.
This is not the marriage I dreamed of.
Not even close.
My mind drifts back to how beautiful our love began, such a sharp contrast to this bitter reality.
I can barely remember my life before the orphanage. Just scattered memories. I recall a woman’s pleading voice telling me not to cry and that I would be going to live somewhere else. At four years old, I arrived at the orphanage not speaking much, not knowing who I was or where I came from.
I slowly adjusted, always quiet and reserved.
My childhood there was neither good nor bad, just routine. Wake up. Go to bed. Attend classes. Play. It was all planned out, and I accepted it quietly, not knowing any other way of life.
The teachers liked me because I was smart and calm. After graduation, they helped me get a small, rundown government apartment. To me, it was perfect.
I dreamed of becoming a doctor and enrolled in medical school.
That is where I met James.
He was so different from anyone I had ever known. Charming, full of energy, from a world I could hardly imagine. When he proposed, I thought I was living a fairy tale.
Now, as I lie here listening to my husband’s drunken snores on our wedding night, I wonder if I have made a huge mistake.
I cannot help thinking of all the women I saw during my medical rotations, women hurt and broken by men who promised to love them.
Is that what my future holds?
No, I tell myself.