On our wedding night, when I saw my husband’s “down there,” I shuddered and understood why my husband’s family had given me a lakeside villa worth about 1 million dollars to marry a poor girl like me…
My name is Lily, I’m 26 years old, I grew up in a poor family in sunny and windy West Texas. My father died early, my mother got sick, I had to drop out of school in the 10th grade to work for rent. After many years of hardship, I finally got a job as a live-in maid for one of the richest families in San Francisco – the Whitmore family in Pacific Heights.
My husband – Michael Whitmore – was the only son of that family. He was handsome, educated, calm, but there was always an invisible distance around him. I worked there for almost three years, accustomed to bowing in silence, never daring to think that I would enter their world. But one day, Eleanor Whitmore (Michael’s mother) called me into the living room, placed the marriage certificate in front of me, and promised:
“Lily, if you agree to marry Michael, the house on the lake in Lake Tahoe will be in your name. It’s a wedding gift from the family.”
I was stunned. How could a young woman like me be compared to their beloved daughter? I thought she was joking, but her eyes were serious. I couldn’t understand why they had chosen me; all I knew was that my mother was seriously ill, and the monthly medical expenses were an incredible burden. My mind told me to refuse, but my weak heart — and the care I had for my mother — made me nod.
The wedding was lavish beyond imagination at The Fairmont San Francisco. I was wearing a white dress, sitting next to Michael, still thinking I was dreaming. But the way he looked at me was cold and distant, as if he was hiding a secret I hadn’t yet grasped.
On the wedding night, the room was filled with flowers. Michael was wearing a white polo shirt, his face like a sculpture but his eyes sad and silent. As he approached, my whole body trembled. At that moment, a heavy truth was revealed.
Miguel was not like any other ordinary man. He had a congenital defect that prevented him from fully fulfilling the role of a husband. Suddenly everything became clear: why they had given him a villa; why a poor servant was allowed to enter a wealthy family – not because I was special, but because they needed a “nominal wife” for Michael.
Tears welled up in my eyes — I didn’t know if it was out of self-pity or mercy. Michael sat quietly and said: “I’m sorry, Lily. You don’t deserve this. I know you’ve done a lot, but my mother… She needs me to have a family to be safe. I can’t go against her will.”
In the yellow light, I saw his eyes moisten. He also felt a deep pain. I didn’t feel any shame, I was different — we were both victims of fate.
In the following days, our lives were different. There was no sweetness between husband and wife, only respect and sharing. Michael was so kind: he asked me out in the morning, took me for a walk around Lake Tahoe in the afternoon, and ate dinner together in the evening. He didn’t treat me as the slave I used to be, but as a companion. That made me feel awkward: my heart was touched and my mind reminded me that this marriage would never be “complete” in the usual sense.
Once, I heard Mrs. Eleanor confide in the family doctor: she had a heart condition and didn’t have much time left. She was afraid that if she left, Michael would be lonely forever. She chose me because she saw that I was kind, hardworking, and not ambitious; She believed that I would stay with Michael and not abandon him because of that flaw.
When I learned the truth, my heart was in turmoil. I had thought that I was just a “substitute” in exchange for the villa, but I was chosen because of love and trust. That day, I told myself: no matter what happens in this marriage, I will not leave Michael.
One rainy night in the Bay Area, Michael suddenly had a seizure. I was scared and took him to UCSF Medical Center. In his coma, he held my hand tightly and whispered:
“If one day you get tired, leave. The lake house is a reward. I don’t want you to be sad because of me…”
I burst into tears. When had he touched my heart? I held his hand,
“No matter what, I will never leave. You are my wife – my family.”
After the crisis, Michael woke up. When he saw me, his eyes filled with tears and warmth. We didn’t need a “perfect” marriage. What we had was understanding – sharing – and a quiet, lasting love.
The house on Lake Tahoe was no longer a “reward,” but a real home. I planted flowers on the veranda; Michael put an easel in the living room. Every night, we lay side by side, listening to the rain falling on the pine forest, and talking about our little dreams.
Perhaps, happiness is not perfection, but finding someone who – despite their shortcomings – still chooses to love and stay. I found that happiness… right from that trembling wedding night over a year ago