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“Yes.”

I nod. “Did he hurt you?”

She shakes her head slowly. “No. Well, not physically.”

“Were you in some kind of danger?”

“No,” she says, and the word is softer this time. “He never touched me without permission. He never even yelled. He didn’t have to.”

I don’t interrupt. I’ve learned not to fill the silence when someone’s trying to figure out what they need to say out loud. And I think she has more to get out.

“It wasn’t fear. Not the way people think. He wasn’t cruel exactly. He was...formal. Kind, in the way that gets praised at dinners and family gatherings. My parents love him.”

“But you don’t. Love him, I mean.”

She shakes her head. “I don’t even like him.”

Her voice isn’t bitter. Not exactly. It sounds like the kind of tired that doesn’t come from just one sleepless night.

“Then why were you marrying him?”

Her eyes stay on the tree line. “It’s how things work. At least in my family. I’m Armenian. First generation. My parents were born there. They moved here before I was born, but they never stopped carrying that world with them. My parents were raised with the idea that love comes after the wedding, not before. That marriage is about matching families, not hearts.

“And I was raised to never question them. There’s a sense of pride that comes with our culture, but it was also really hard. My whole life was built around who I was supposed to be, not who I actually am. It’s family over everything.”

Her voice shifts a little on that last word. Not bitter, not angry—just resigned.

She finally looks over at me, and I don’t move. I don’t want to do anything that might make her uncomfortable.

“It turns out I was the only one making sacrifices in the name of family. Everyone else just expected me to keep falling on the sword for their sake.”

I let that settle for a minute. The morning air is still cool. The sun climbs higher, reaching past the trees now, spreading light across the slope.

“The marriage was arranged. He‘s a family friend and he checked all the boxes. That was that.”

“Did you try to talk to them?” I ask.

Her laugh is quieter this time. “I tried.” She pauses, tucking her feet up onto the step. “They said I was lucky. That girls with choices always end up miserable. That women who waited for feelings ended up alone or divorced. They said he would take care of me, give me a good life. That being provided for was love. That I’d understand once I stopped being selfish.”

I study her profile. Her jaw is tight, but her eyes are sad.

“Was he older?” I ask.

She nods. “Only by a few years, though. He was well-educated. Successful. Clean-cut. All the things they said mattered.”

“But not the things that mattered to you.”

Her mouth presses into a line, and I see the truth of it settle behind her eyes.

She exhales slowly. “No.”

I stay quiet and let her continue.

“Marrying him would have been a slow kind of death. One where I watched myself disappear year by year, pretending it was enough. Smiling in photos. Hosting dinners. Having babies on command. I could already see the timeline stretched in front of me, and there wasn’t a single part of it that I chose.”

I nod once. Not because I know exactly how that feels, but because I understand what it means to see your life playing out in front of you without your hand on the wheel.

Ani shifts, and the blanket slips down her arm, and she pulls it back up.