I was twenty-eight when I married the man I had known almost my entire life.
We didn’t have a big wedding. No ballroom, no orchestra, no extravagant flowers. Just a small rented hall, a few close friends, and a homemade cake one of our classmates insisted on baking.
But to me, it was perfect.
Because I wasn’t just marrying the man I loved.
I was marrying the boy who had once sat beside me on the cracked playground bench of an orphanage and promised, “One day we’ll build our own home.”
And somehow… we had.
For illustrative purposes only
Growing Up With Noah
By the time I was eight, I had already been passed through four foster homes.
Some families were kind but overwhelmed. Others simply decided I wasn’t the child they wanted. Each time I packed my small bag and moved somewhere new, I felt a little less wanted.
Eventually, the social worker brought me to another orphanage on the edge of the city.
That’s where I met Noah.
He was nine years old and used a wheelchair because of a congenital spinal condition. Most of the kids didn’t know how to interact with him. Some were awkward. Others avoided him completely.
I didn’t.
On my first day, I saw him sitting alone under a tree with a book in his lap.
I sat beside him and asked, “What are you reading?”
