Chapter 1: Promises and Arrangements

Ever since I was little, it was decided—I’d be the Carter family’s daughter-in-law.

I can still remember the way my mom told me that—like it was some kind of fairytale, the golden ticket out of a life we both barely scraped through. In our small Ohio town, that sort of arrangement carried more weight than you’d think—whispers at the grocery store, sideways glances at the school bus stop. Even back then, I knew that kind of fate never felt like mine to own.

At twenty, I married Jason Carter, who was on the autism spectrum.

Our wedding was elegant but cold, held at a riverside estate with expensive flowers and little warmth. The caterers served mini crab cakes and sparkling cider, but the laughter felt forced, every toast just another performance. My mother’s old friends from the next town over crowded into the pews, eyes wide with envy, but not one of them actually asked if I was happy. I wore the Carter pearls—borrowed, not given—and smiled for photos, my stomach in knots.

After five years of marriage, Jason always seemed to dislike me.

No matter how hard I tried to break through, I always felt like an intruder in my own home. The Carter house had the kind of silence where you could hear your own heartbeat, and Jason’s presence felt like a wall I couldn’t scale.

He wouldn’t let me touch him, let alone share a room.

I’d grown used to sleeping alone, watching the glow of streetlights on the ceiling, listening to the faint hum of the neighbor’s old Ford as he pulled in late. The distance between us was more than physical—it was a canyon, wide and silent.

Later, he met another girl.

Her name was Sarah. She came around with the ease of someone who’d always been welcomed in places I never was. Even the house seemed lighter when she was there—Jason’s eyes followed her, his body language softer, more open.

Around her, he tried to keep his temper in check, even awkwardly tried to make her laugh.

I caught him once, practicing a joke in the kitchen mirror, his voice stiff but determined. For her, he tried. For me, there was only that wall.

He wrote songs for her and gave her gifts.

He even bought her a vinyl record—an original Fleetwood Mac, she told me once, laughing in the hallway. It stung more than I wanted to admit.

Even the music room—where he’d never let me set foot—was wide open to that girl.

I heard them in there once, laughing softly as they played piano duets. The sound drifted down the hall, warm and inviting, and I stood outside the door feeling like a ghost.

That’s when I realized: Jason had someone he cared about, and I didn’t want to be his caretaker anymore.

The truth hit me in the kitchen on a rainy Wednesday night, standing over a pot of coffee I’d made just for myself. I was tired—tired of living as someone’s support system instead of their partner. I needed something for me, even if it meant letting go.

So, I went to Grandpa Carter.

I told him I wanted a divorce.