Chapter 4: Dreams, Broken

5

My wife stared blankly at her mother, her voice trembling, "Mom, just so they won’t know I’m your daughter, you’ll let them make up stories?"

My mother-in-law replied, "I’m doing this for your own good. Things have gotten to this point—you shouldn’t have the wedding, it’s too embarrassing."

Her words were sharp, but her voice was trembling, as if she was trying to convince herself as much as her daughter.

My wife interrupted, crying, "Mom, I’m not dirty. Why can’t I get married?"

She was sobbing now, her whole body shaking. I could feel the injustice burning in her words—she was desperate to be heard, to be believed.

"Do you think I don’t want my daughter to get married? Think about it. If you get married and wear bridal makeup, everyone will recognize you from the video. Do you think your wedding will be happy? Do you think people will wish you well, or just laugh at you behind your back? I’m doing this for your own good. Why can’t you understand?"

The silence was suffocating. My wife’s tears fell harder. Her mother’s logic was cruelly practical, a kind of American small-town pragmatism—keep quiet, keep your head down, let the gossip die.

My wife was speechless. We all understood what my mother-in-law meant.

Even if we could clear her name, once the wedding was held, my wife would inevitably become a joke at her own wedding.

The world is small in these neighborhoods. A reputation lost is never fully recovered.

My wife, who had only just started to recover, finally broke down. She ran into the bedroom and slammed the door.

The sound echoed down the hall, the walls seeming to close in. My mother-in-law turned away, dabbing her eyes with the hem of her sleeve.

Soon, heart-wrenching cries came from within.

"Why am I always the one who gets hurt? I did nothing wrong, so why am I the only one suffering?"

Her words cut through me, raw and honest. There was no comfort I could offer that would make this right.

Hearing her cries, my heart ached as if being cut by knives.

I pressed my hand to the door, wishing I could take the pain for her, erase the world’s cruelty with a touch.

Yes, she did nothing wrong. Why should she bear all this pain?

Now, we were trapped in the most painful dilemma.

Either swallow the humiliation, let others slander and curse, hide away and live with undeserved infamy, in exchange for a little peace.

Or speak out and tell the truth, but then everyone would know which family she was from, her name, and for years, even just taking out the trash would invite pointing and gossip.

In small towns, stories last longer than seasons. The damage would follow her everywhere—grocery store, church, PTA meetings, even walks through the park.

No matter which path we chose, only we would be hurt.

I tried to open the door to comfort her, but it was locked from the inside.

I said, "Baby, can you let me in?"

She cried so hard she couldn’t speak.

Her sobs were muffled, as if she were trying to hide even from herself.

She told me she had always dreamed of marrying me.

She scrimped and saved for a long time to buy herself a big diamond ring.

She saved three years of bonuses to buy me a used Tesla as part of her dowry.

I remembered how proud she’d been, showing me the keys, talking about how we’d drive up to Lake Michigan, just the two of us.

She dreamed of sitting in our little car, wearing a wedding dress, letting me put the ring on her finger.

She had given so much, endured so many years of hardship, all for that one dream on her wedding day.

Now everyone was telling her, "You did nothing wrong, but you can’t have your dream."

My own eyes reddened, and I croaked, "We can get married. If you want, I’ll have a wedding with you. I’m not afraid of being laughed at. I just want you in this world."

My voice broke. I wanted her to know she wasn’t alone, even if it was just us against the world.

She cried and said the wedding could never be happy now. Just as her parents said, if she wore the bridal gown and appeared before everyone, it would only invite ridicule.

I said nothing more.

But I remembered two people.

The woman who tore her clothes—I didn’t know her address, only that her name was Wendy James.

And in the Facebook group, their nicknames were their apartment numbers.

The neighbor who posted the video lived in Building 4, Apartment 901.

I said nothing, just remembered these people.

I clenched my fists, suppressing my animal instincts.

Every woman in this world has a man who loves her to his core.

For her, anything can be done.