One day, I met Henry, a tall and handsome guy who would eventually become a significant part of my life. We started out as friends, bonding over shared interests and laughter, but eventually, our connection deepened, and we began dating. Henry came from a traditional and culturally rich family, where expectations and obligations ran deep. As the youngest son, he was surrounded by siblings who had all taken the conventional path - marriage and children - except for his younger sister, who was still in high school. I was drawn to Henry's kind heart and adventurous spirit, but I couldn't help but wonder how his family would react to me, a trans woman, entering their lives.
I was smitten with Henry, and our online connection only grew stronger with each passing day. My best friend was my confidante, the only one who knew about our blossoming relationship. She would often ask me, 'How can you fall in love with someone you've never met?' But I knew that our connection was genuine, a deep and sincere bond that transcended physical distance. We shared our thoughts, dreams, and fears with each other, and I felt like I had found a kindred spirit. Despite the fact that we had yet to meet in person, I couldn't help but feel a strong attachment to him.
Henry was feeling suffocated by his family's constant pressure to get married and produce a daughter-in-law. But he had a secret: he was bisexual, and the thought of conforming to their expectations felt like a lie. So, he proposed an unexpected solution to me: would I be willing to marry him and pretend to be his wife? I was taken aback, unsure of what to say. But as I weighed the pros and cons, I saw an opportunity. By marrying Henry, I could gain American citizenship, a passport to a country where I could live more freely, without the constant fear of persecution. A place where I could be myself, without apology. The thought was tantalizing, but I knew I had to be cautious. Was this a chance at a new life, or a recipe for disaster?
Henry showed me to his family, introducing me as the African woman he had fallen in love with. Little did they know, we had a secret agreement. Our plan was to get married for five years, during which time Henry would cover all the costs of my transition surgeries. In return, I would play the role of his wife, allowing him to appease his family's expectations. After five years, once I had fully transitioned and obtained my American citizenship, Henry would stage a public infidelity, and we would divorce. It was a calculated arrangement, one that would grant me the freedom and identity I had always desired, while also allowing Henry to maintain his family's approval. But as I looked into his family's expectant faces, I couldn't help but wonder: what other secrets lay hidden behind their smiles?