I was eighteen when I became someone’s wife. Not because I was in love. Because I was broke, exhausted, and terrified of what would happen to my family if I said no.
My name is Emily Harper, and the man I married was Walter Briggs, a sixty-year-old farmer in rural Iowa whose land stretched farther than my future ever seemed to. People said I was lucky. They said I was “taken care of.”
They had no idea what he really needed from me.
Or what he was hiding. The Bargain
My mother had died when I was fifteen. Cancer.
Fast and unforgiving. My father followed two years later—not in body, but in spirit. A stroke left him alive but unable to work, barely able to speak.
Medical bills piled up like snowdrifts after a storm. I worked two jobs while finishing high school. Waitress by day.
Gas station clerk by night. It still wasn’t enough. Then Walter Briggs came into my life like a solution wrapped in flannel.
He owned hundreds of acres. Corn. Soybeans.
A farmhouse that smelled of dust and history. He was respected. Quiet.
Known as a man who “kept to himself.”
He approached me through a church acquaintance. “I need help,” he said, his voice calm. “And you need stability.”
He offered marriage.
In return, he would pay my father’s bills, provide a home, cover my education later “if things worked out.”
I asked him why he wanted to marry someone so young. He smiled thinly. “Because I need someone dependable.”
I didn’t understand what that meant.
Not yet. Seven Times a Day
From the first week, I learned what Walter meant by “need.”
He needed breakfast at exactly 5:30 a.m. He needed his boots cleaned before sunrise.
He needed the animals fed in a precise order. He needed the fields checked, the books balanced, the phone calls handled. Seven times a day, at least, he summoned me.
Not gently. “Emily.”
Always my full name. Never “dear.”
If I was late—even by minutes—he would stare at his watch, then at me, as if logging a failure.
He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t have to. The house itself seemed to tighten when he was displeased.
I slept lightly. Ate quickly. Learned to move quietly, like the walls were listening.
When neighbors asked how married life was, I smiled. “He works hard,” I said. “He needs a lot of help.”
That was true.
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
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