My husband and I met by coincidence. Or so I thought. Turns out I was an opportunity made available unknowingly and he being the sneaky and clever bastard that he is, seized such an opportunity knowing that our union would ensure him and his family a better life. I was the doorway out of Armenia and the key to entry into America. And though our marriage crumbled like building blocks on top of one another, without proper support, I thank God for our meet because if we hadn’t gotten married, I wouldn’t be mom to my amazing son.
Undoubtedly, motherhood is the one and only thing that’s made all the doubt, heartache and pain of the last three years be tolerable. It’s easy to blame him and he deserves most of the blame, but I realize and accept that my husband and I are equally at fault for the sham of a life together. Neither of us was in love with the other. I was well aware, yet I agreed to marry him. I wasn’t young and stupid. No, I was ‘old’ and tired of sitting around waiting for Prince Charming. I was afraid of growing old with no one by my side. I was already referred to as an old maid and I guess that even though I knew our marriage would be based on lies and ulterior motives, I went ahead with applying for a fiance VISA, planning a wedding and eventually marrying someone who would instead of mending my broken heart as promised added salt to wounds that were not fresh yet still open. Instead of happiness he gave me sorrow. I was presented with self doubt, insults and complaints one too many times. Instead of smiles I would get dagger shots from the depths of his big brown eyes. I was scared of the ripple effect disobeying him would have. The little comfort I felt when in his arms was short lived. I had to limit my thoughts, my actions, my speech because I did not want him to turn against my family as a way of punishing me. In the end it didn’t even matter ‘cause he not only raised his hand at me, but also my father and my brother.
twiceengagednevermarried 