Chapter 4: Locked Doors and Silent Years

I didn’t know Jason was so against marrying me.

I’d heard rumors, but the truth hurt more than I’d expected. On our wedding night, the distance was an ocean between us.

After we married, he never once showed me a kind face.

He avoided my gaze, his jaw set tight. We passed each other in the halls like strangers sharing an Airbnb.

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

His bedroom door was always locked. I slept in the guest room, the sheets crisp and cold, my heart lonelier than ever.

On our wedding night, he lost his temper at me in the master bedroom.

"Just leave. I don’t want you here. Please—just go."

His voice was harsh, edged with panic. The kind that makes you freeze in place.

The words echoed in my chest. I backed out, head down, my cheeks burning with shame.

I hung my head in embarrassment, feeling humiliation burn inside me.

I retreated to the guest room, tears soaking my pillow, wishing I could disappear.

That day, Grandpa Carter came to talk to me.

He found me in the kitchen, making tea I didn’t want to drink. He sat across from me, voice gentler than I’d ever heard.

He said Jason had always been withdrawn, didn’t like being around people.

He told me stories about Jason as a child—how even at family gatherings, Jason would hide in his treehouse, headphones on, world shut out.

The aunt who used to take care of Jason had just passed away, so Jason’s condition had been especially bad lately.

I saw the pain flicker in his eyes—he missed her, too. That loss had made Jason even more distant.

He asked me to be patient and give Jason some time.

I promised I would. Maybe it was naive, but I wanted to believe patience would fix things.

I nodded and agreed.

For me, hope was a habit. I held onto it like a lucky penny.

From then on, I took on the job of caring for Jason, running between college and the Carter family’s house.

My days were a blur of classes, grocery runs, and checking in on him. I set alarms on my phone for his meds, bought his favorite snacks, tried to make his world easier.

I had to remind Jason to take his meds on time, take him to regular doctor’s appointments, and make sure he ate and had clean clothes.

I kept charts on the fridge, notes on the calendar. The work was endless, but I did it without complaint. Caring for Jason became my life’s rhythm.

Luckily, Jason wasn’t completely unresponsive, and gradually started to acknowledge me.

He stopped flinching when I spoke, even let me leave his laundry by his door.

For example, he no longer told me to "get out."

It was progress—tiny, but real. Each small step felt like a victory.

If he saw me sleeping on the couch, he’d awkwardly cover me with a blanket.

The first time he did that, I pretended to stay asleep, heart pounding. It was a kindness he never mentioned, but it meant the world.

And when I had cramps, he’d make me a cup of hot cocoa.

He’d set the mug beside me, eyes averted, then disappear. I tasted it carefully—too sweet, but made with real care.

But he still never shared a room with me.

No matter what, that line was never crossed. The guest room became my world—my little island.

The Carter house always smelled faintly of lemon polish and old money, but never of anything warm like cinnamon or fresh bread.

The Carter family only had one male heir in this generation; Jason was the only son.

I heard the whispers at family gatherings—pressure building for the next Carter. It was tradition, expectation, legacy.

Grandpa Carter was always hoping for a great-grandson, and urged me more than once.

He’d take me aside after dinner, voice low but urgent. “You know how much it would mean, Annie.”

But for something like that, if he wasn’t willing, there was nothing I could do.

I’d nod and change the subject. The silence said everything.

Finally, in the fifth year, Grandpa Carter couldn’t wait any longer.

He grew impatient, taking matters into his own hands. One night, I found my tea tasted odd, but I drank it anyway.

Without telling me, he drugged Jason.

He said nothing at dinner, but I saw the worry on his face. That night, Jason seemed restless, eyes unfocused.

Then he sent Jason to my room.

Jason stumbled in, disoriented, confusion and something darker in his gaze.

He locked the bedroom door, trapping us inside.

The click of the lock echoed in my chest. I felt like prey—cornered, helpless.

That night is still burned into my memory.

Pain.

It just hurt so much.

There was no tenderness—just need, fear, confusion. The world narrowed to pain and tears.

Driven by the drug, Jason’s eyes were unfocused, acting on pure instinct.

He didn’t see me—just a blurred outline, a body, not a person.

But he had no experience, and his actions were rough.

His hands fumbled, his grip bruising. I bit my lip to keep from screaming.

I felt like I was being torn apart, the pain intense, tears streaming down my face.

The moonlight painted shadows on the wall, and I counted each second, praying for it to end.

As the sun came up, I couldn’t take it anymore and passed out.

I woke to sunlight streaming through the blinds, pain radiating through every inch of me.