“Visit twice a month,” she said. “Write letters. Make the court see he still has family.”
Our wedding took place behind scratched glass, with a guard watching the clock. I expected Jonah to be angry. Cold. Maybe cruel.
But he was gentle.
He remembered my brother’s birthday, asked if I had eaten, and filled his notes with little sketches.
At first, I only acted like I cared.
Then I truly did.
I spent nights reading his case files. Missing signatures. Dates that didn’t match. A witness who disappeared after testifying.
While everyone called Jonah a thief, I begged lawyers to reopen his case.
By then, I loved him.
Three years later, the truth finally came out. His cousin had stolen the charity money, forged Jonah’s name, and blamed him.
The day Jonah walked free, I thought he would embrace me.
Instead, he quietly said,
“Come home with me.”
For one week, I believed the worst was over.
Then, on the eighth night, Jonah placed a black box on our kitchen table.
“What is that?”
“Now it’s my turn to be honest.”
I tried to smile.
“Jonah, don’t scare me.”
His expression turned serious.
“Yes,” he whispered. “I have to. Because when you married me, you agreed to something far BIGGER than a name on paper.” 
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