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“I won’t marry that boy!”

“…But I’m a girl.”

I was seven years old when I was betrothed to the son of my father’s best friend.

My betrothed was a five-year-old boy who screamed that I was a boy, and then hid behind his mother’s skirt.

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Edmund had never loved me.

“Even if we’re to marry, I’ll live my own life, and you live yours,” he said this at thirteen.

“I won’t feel anything even if you died,” he said this at sixteen.

“I don’t think I’m ready to get married yet,” he said this at twenty, the age we’re supposed to marry.

He made excuses about not wanting to marry right now and asked for more time.

I was relieved. I didn’t want it either, so it worked out fine.

But soon after, Father brought another man home and introduced him as my new betrothed.

I was devastated. Yet, my devastation paled in comparison to Edmund’s expression when he heard the news and came calling.