I was twenty-two when I decided to marry for money.
I grew up in poverty. My mother suffered from a lung disease, and my younger brother couldn’t go to school because we didn’t have enough money. As for me, I was just a simple young woman with dreams of getting ahead in life — even if it meant losing my own freedom.
One evening, news reached our small home. People were talking about a rich old man named Don Armando who was looking for a wife.
They said he was fat, almost the size of a refrigerator, and nearly twice my age. But everyone also said he was kind — and very, very rich.
“Daughter,” my mother said, catching her breath between coughs, “maybe this is your chance. So that we don’t have to suffer anymore.”
Her voice trembled, and I saw the tears in her eyes. Out of desperation, I agreed.
