She helped me learn to say words properly without ever making me feel small. She talked to me about saving money, about making something that mattered, about thinking past the edges of our town.

Nobody my age had ever made me believe my future could stretch beyond the workshop and the debts and the dry land around our house. With her, I finally believed I could be more than what I’d always known.

And yes, I fell in love with her. It had nothing to do with money or comfort or how it looked. I fell in love with the way she listened to me like I mattered.

When I told my family, the house came apart.

“That woman has you completely manipulated,” my aunt snapped, arms crossed tight.

“You’re looking for a mother, not a wife,” my cousin said, with open disgust.

“She’ll use you and throw you away when she gets bored.” That was my father, and the disappointment in it cut deeper than any of the insults.

I stood firm anyway. I defended her over and over, even after the whole town settled on calling me desperate, or foolish, or greedy for reaching past my place.

The wedding was at a restored countryside estate in Virginia — white flowers, candlelight, musicians playing something soft and classical that made the whole night feel like it belonged to another world.

There were too many men in dark suits standing quietly at the edges of it. Too many discreet earpieces. Far too much security for a ceremony that small.

I noticed every bit of it and chose not to ask, because I was blind with what I felt for her.

Later, when we were finally alone in a large bedroom with high ceilings and dim light, Eleanor closed the door slowly. Her hands were shaking. She set a thick envelope and a set of keys on the table beside us.