I was twenty years old when I met him.
Still soft. Still believing love was gentle. Still thinking honesty was enough to be chosen.
He was twenty-nine — older, confident, and already certain about the world in ways I was not. He spoke like someone who knew where he was going, and I listened like someone who wanted direction. When he looked at me, I felt seen. When he chose me, I felt lucky.
I didn't know yet how dangerous luck can be when it comes wrapped in affection.
I mistook his attention for protection.
I mistook his age for wisdom.
I mistook his interest for love.
At twenty, you don't know how to question warmth. You don't know that someone can hold your hand and still lead you into pain. I trusted him easily, because my heart had never learned how to defend itself.
That was the beginning.
Not of love — but of learning how much a woman can endure while still calling it love.
was twenty when I learned how easily love can disguise itself as responsibility.
Derek was twenty-nine—older, grounded, sure of himself. He spoke like a man who had already lived, and I listened like a girl who still believed that love meant obedience. When I met him, everything felt right. Too right. He called me beautiful, told me I was different, said I made him feel calm. I mistook his certainty for protection.
I didn't know then that I would slowly become small inside his confidence.
The first night I slept in his bed, I lay beside him thinking I had found something real. The room was quiet, our bodies warm, my heart open. Then, casually—almost lazily—he said something that would change everything.
"By the way," he said, staring at the ceiling, "I have a child."
I turned to him.
"A child?" I asked.
"Yes."
My chest tightened. "Why didn't you tell me this before?"
He frowned slightly, irritated. "I did tell you."
"No," I said softly, confused. "You didn't."
He turned toward me then, his voice firm. "I told you. Maybe you forgot."
I remember lying there, doubting my own memory. Wondering if I really had forgotten. That was the first time Derek made me question myself. And it wouldn't be the last.
After that night, things continued—but not innocently.
I started acting like a wife without ever being called one. Not because he ordered me to, but because he asked in ways that sounded like love.
"Babe," he'd say, calling me late in the evening, "I don't want to eat funny street food tonight. Could you cook for me?"
It would be nine at night. I'd already be in bed at my place, tired. Still, I'd get up without complaining. I'd cook, pack the food carefully, then rush to his house just to see him smile.
Later he'd say, "Babe, I need hot water. Please boil it for me."
It would be ten. And I would go.
Not because I had to.
But because I loved him.
When I washed his clothes, he'd inspect them like a supervisor.
"These shoes," he'd say, holding them up, "they're not clean enough. Wash them again."
I would.
Every time.
Because love, to me then, meant proving myself.
But no matter how much I did, it was never enough. And whenever I spoke up, he reminded me how young I was.
"You're too childish," he'd say when I disagreed with him.
"You don't understand how life works yet."
"You think like a small girl."
Once, I told him his words hurt me.
He laughed. "See? This is what I mean. You're too sensitive."
Slowly, I stopped talking.
He proposed later—not with romance, but with expectation.
"I want you to move in properly," he said. "As my wife. We should prepare for marriage."
My heart raced. Part of me felt chosen. Another part felt scared.
I told him about my diploma. I told him I needed to go back to school, to finish something for myself.
"Can you wait for me?" I asked. "Just for a while?"
He sighed. "Okay. But don't waste time."
I left believing love was patient.
When I came back weeks later, I walked into betrayal disguised as logic.
"I'm going to the UK," he said.
I smiled nervously. "For how long?"
"I'm getting married there."
The room spun.
"To… who?"
"My other woman."
I stared at him, unable to breathe.
"But," he added quickly, "you don't have to go anywhere. You can stay. She knows about you."
"What do you mean stay?" I asked, my voice shaking.
"You can be my girlfriend here. She'll be my wife there."
In that moment, I understood everything. I was never his future. I was his convenience.
"No," I said quietly.
He looked surprised. "Why are you acting emotional?"
Because I was twenty and had given him everything.
Because I had cooked, cleaned, waited, obeyed, believed.
Because I loved him.
The heartbreak followed me to work, to sleep, to silence. One day at the bridal shop, I broke down. A client walked in while I was crying so hard I couldn't stop. She left quietly and came back later.
"What happened?" she asked gently.
I told her.
She nodded slowly. "You will find someone else."
I wanted to believe her.
I left Derek behind, but he left marks inside me—marks that would follow me into the arms of other men, into other beds, into other mistakes.
I thought this was the end of my suffering.
I didn't know it was only the beginning.