“Nothing in this situation is fair. If we’re going to be husband and wife, or whatever this arrangement is, you should use my last name.”
He nodded slowly. “Elellanar.” My name and his deep, gentle voice rang out like music.
“Then you should know something too. I don’t think you’re unfit for marriage. I think the men who rejected you were fools. A man who can’t see beyond the wheelchair, to see the person inside, doesn’t deserve you.”
It was the kindest thing anyone had said to me in four years.
“Will you do it?” I asked. “Will you accept my father’s plan?”
“Yes,” he replied without hesitation. “I will protect you. I will take care of you. And I will try to be worthy of you.”
“And I’ll try to make the situation bearable for both of us.”
We sealed the deal with a handshake, his enormous hand engulfing mine, warm and surprisingly gentle. My father’s radical solution suddenly seemed less impossible.
But what happened next? What I learned about Josiah in the months that followed. That’s when this story takes an unexpected turn.
The agreement formally came into force on 1 April 1856.
My father performed a small ceremony, not a legal wedding since slaves were not allowed to marry, and certainly not one that white society would recognize, but he gathered the servants, read some Bible verses, and announced that Josiah would henceforth take care of me.
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