At 34, under pressure from my parents to marry before I turned 35, I made a rash decision. Fed up with their demands and threats of disinheritance, I married a homeless man, Stan, out of spite. Our arrangement was simple: I would provide shelter, food, and money, while he would pretend to be my husband.
A month later, I came home to an unexpected surprise. The house, usually messy, was spotless, and the smell of roast chicken filled the air. In the kitchen, Stan—looking confident and clean—was cooking like a professional chef. He revealed that he used to be a sous-chef before his life took a downturn.
I was shocked. I had underestimated him. As we sat down for dinner, Stan opened up about his past, explaining how poor choices had led him to the streets. “People can change,” he said.
What I thought was a temporary solution began to feel like something much deeper. Stan had changed, and so had I.
