I didn't fully understand my husband until the morning after our wedding night, which was supposed to be the most magical night of my life. Who was I to fear? I pondered as I saw the disgust etched across his well-shaped face. He had fallen into a silent sleep, leaving me alone to wrestle with the unsettling reality.

My thoughts shifted to my mother, the woman who bore me but never sought me out for a fortnight, the young gentleman he now considered his shield who proclaimed me a disgrace, and the man lying beside me, who insisted he was rescuing me from the harsh judgments of older women. Each of their voices played in my mind, but the cry of my shattered dream echoed through my heart.

I had been told that every girl inevitably experiences a similar fate: a gradual submission to a man. The way this surrender manifests is as diverse and unique as the girls themselves. It didn't matter what form it took; it inevitably arrived, often accompanied by bittersweet cheers. Some dues were paid through penance, others through quiet sacrifices that weighed heavily on their hearts. Some suitors presented themselves confidently, offering cherished livestock and even their father's prized cow as a measure of their love. If that wasn't love, then what was?

For some, you considered yourself blessed; your forced betrothed would take you for a stroll by the riverbank, moments that felt fleeting but lingered on lonely nights. Then, some allowed you to speak with their fathers, who would declare that you were the one destined to sustain their lineage. Mine had seized control of the decades-long reality with fierce determination, much like many others in our village. The community accepted the brutal tradition without question; after all, it was an unspoken truth that a man would eventually claim every girl.

The sooner this transition occurred, the more favourable it was, allowing the sons to find solace for their burning desires. Did it have to matter how this bond was forged? A wave of sadness washed over me as I observed him, and I couldn't help but speculate whether the gods were enacting vengeance on him.

On our first morning, when he opened his eyes and caught sight of me, a look of disgust covered his face. It made me ponder: perhaps it wasn't merely a woman's tale; a man honestly had to be determined by the warmth of a woman's presence. He turned away from our bed—a space that belonged to him, yet he had welcomed me each night, enveloping me in the shyness of unwelcome intimacy.

For the nights that followed, he would place a blindfold over my eyes before easing his manhood into me. Was that meant to soothe his feelings, or was he trying to shield me from the truth? I didn't need the harsh realisation that I wasn't essential but merely a necessity; it felt like the bittersweet dream of every girl.

In the sun-scorched days spent with my friends, I often imagined marrying someone who, despite having little wealth, would treasure me above all else. A partner who remained elusive yet captivated my heart, their quiet presence making my thoughts dance around the enchanting idea of love.

I slowly went to the kitchen; this was my home, where I, a servant, slept in the master's bed. I fidgeted as I navigated the corners of the house. I felt like a stranger in a home filled with two adults who despised each other. Yet, something was poignant about a woman who had chosen to be with a man. This union forever changed their lives. I quickly searched for a place where I could find contentment with what life had given me, but he remained trapped in a cycle of hate and disgust. The master took pride in "rescuing" a woman he believed was remarkable to find it was all a lie.

I could see how he dreaded it, raising his hands to me whenever he felt overwhelmed. "Where do I turn? Where do I run?". One day, with two children and another on the way, he faced a difficult choice: to be known as a man who couldn't keep a family or to be forever jailed by a woman he despised.

He knew it; the world would judge him, but just for a day, they would turn and find a reason to create a biased dismay towards me, "the woman", what bad I could have done for a man to live his wife and children, for a man to shatter his legacy!

As a young girl, I envisioned that a man would one day come carrying jugs of beer. He would tell my mother that your daughter, the one we watched tending the cows and cultivating the garden, would join our family. I would don my well-dried white dress and sandals, hold my hair in a bun, and proudly display my clean teeth as I was introduced to my betrothed. But it was becoming clear to me that these were just dreams I had for myself.

Not all girls are the same; each carries her own story, woven with unique threads of experience. Your man's family swelled with pride at your arrival, a cherished addition to their lineage. In a world where not everyone is equal, some without the burden of servitude would find solace in the support of someone who truly cared.

When I finally returned to my parents' house three years later, a chill seeped into the air as my mother regarded me with disdain, as if I were a ghost haunting her past. "Why aren't you with your family?" she demanded, her voice heavy with unasked questions. The last time we had seen each other was on that fateful afternoon before I was forcibly taken, ripped from the warmth of our home and carried miles away. Even then, she didn't invite inquiry into my absence, choosing silence instead.

Her life had taken a dark turn; whispers of my descent into prostitution had reached her like echoes of a never-ending nightmare. Her husband had spoken to her about me, and it became clear that the weight of "my" choices had pulled her into a spiral of despair. At that time, it was confirmed that every woman needed their father in times of turmoil because only then was she considered worthy of having a name.

As I dragged my suitcase away from her piercing, disappointed gaze, her vulnerable whisper cut through the silence: "I have no home of my own, child; I belong to my husband." The words hung in the air, a stark reminder of the ties that bind us and the chains that confine us.