Twenty-eight years.
We escaped the orphanage together, slept under bridges, split a single cup of instant noodles. In the worst days, all we had to fill our stomachs was water.
We couldn't afford birth control. Couldn't afford a clinic.
I threw myself into the freezing cold, climbed staircases and hurled myself down them,
endured the pain, cried until I had nothing left, and let two babies go.
Noel knelt at my bedside and stabbed himself twice with a knife.
His bloodied hand, trembling, covered my eyes. Each word landed right against my ear.
"Brooklyn, I swear I'll give you a good life. If I ever betray you, let God strike me dead."
That promise carried weight.
I believed it for half my life. Built my whole life around it.
The damage to my body, the pressure on my mind, the grinding monotony of scraping by. None of it left room for me to be soft-tempered.
Up until thirty minutes ago, when Noel held me in front of our friends and solemnly vowed to love me forever, I still thought every sacrifice had been worth it.
His phone rang. The ringtone was distinctive.
I'd heard it many times in the middle of the night. Noel always said it was a client.
I trusted him too completely to ever question it.