She was deemed unfit for marriage.

Philadelphia in 1857 was a bustling city of 300,000 people, including a large community of free blacks in neighborhoods like Mother Bethl. The abolitionist contacts my father had provided us with helped us find housing. A modest apartment in a neighborhood where interracial couples, though unusual, were not uncommon.

Josiah opened a forge with money my father had given him. His reputation grew rapidly. He was skilled, reliable, and his imposing size allowed him to perform tasks other blacksmiths couldn’t. Within a year, Freeman’s forge became one of the busiest in the area.

I handled the business side of things, keeping the books, managing clients, and drafting contracts. My education and intelligence, which the Virginia society had deemed worthless, proved essential to our success.

We had our first child in November 1858. A boy we named Thomas, after my father’s middle name. He was healthy and perfect. And as I watched Josiah hold our son for the first time—this gentle giant cradling a newborn with infinite care—I knew we had made the right choice.

But our story doesn’t end there. What happened next? What we discovered about love, family, and building a legacy—well, that’s when it all became real.

After Thomas, four more children were born: William in 1860, Margaret in 1863, James in 1865, and Elizabeth in 1868. We raised them in freedom, teaching them to be proud of both their ancestry and sending them to schools that accepted black children.

And my legs. In 1865, Josiah designed an orthopedic device, metal splints that attached to my legs and connected to a support around my waist. With these splints and crutches, I could stand, I could walk, awkwardly, but truly.

For the first time since I was 8, I walked.

“You’ve given me so much,” I told Josiah that day, standing in our house with tears streaming down my face. “You’ve given me love, trust, and children. And now you’ve literally made me walk.”

“You’ve always walked, Ellaner.” He watched me as I took my uncertain steps. “I just gave you different tools.”

My father came to visit us twice, in 1862 and 1869. He met his grandchildren, saw our home, our business, our life. He saw that we were happy, that his radical solution had worked beyond all expectations. He died in 1870, leaving his estate to my cousin Robert, as required by Virginia law. But he did leave me a letter.