My Third Silent Promise

Trigger Warning: This story contains themes of emotional distress, toxic relationships, and familial judgment that may be sensitive for some readers.

In March 2023, I met Esmir in an online space where I had hoped for connection and safety. After three marriages—two to immigrants—I wasn’t looking for love. I carried the weight of heartbreak, judgment, and insecurities, convinced my best chance was to focus on my children and myself. Then Esmir appeared. His words were kind and his charm magnetic. He promised me the one thing I had been afraid to hope for: stability.

“I’ll take care of you,” he said one night during a conversation that stretched into the early hours. “Just give me a chance.” I didn’t believe him, not completely, but his words lingered.

We started texting constantly, falling into a rhythm that felt easy. Our first date, at a Mexican restaurant, was a quiet whirlwind of nerves and connection.

“It’s nice to meet someone who doesn’t run from my baggage,” I admitted between bites, laughing nervously.

“Maybe I have my own baggage to unpack too,” he replied, his smile soft.

For a moment, I let myself imagine this could work. But just days later, he shattered that hope. “It’s better I marry a Turkish girl,” he said, his voice heavy with regret. His sister had advised him to return to New Jersey, and it felt like the rug had been pulled out from under me. I cried for days. I sat in my room journaling until my hand cramped, trying to understand why rejection hurt so much.

The more I wrote, the more patterns I saw. My life had been a cycle: fast beginnings, binge-like immersions, and the inevitable purges that followed. I realized I was chasing stability, hoping to fix others so they might fix me. I decided I needed to tell my story—if not to heal, then to find meaning in the chaos.

Then, at the end of March, Esmir came back. He apologized, full of regret, and on my birthday, April 2, he showed up with roses. “We can make this work,” he said. Against my better judgment, I believed him. By April 14, we had secured a marriage license, and I began preparing for a quiet wedding.

I found my dress at Cato Fashions, a simple white piece that I paired with a black shrug. It felt symbolic—new beginnings paired with the shadows of my past. But secrecy was critical. Living next door to my parents made hiding my plans nearly impossible. Our houses were separated by a single driveway, and even the sound of my car door could raise questions.

On April 28, I put on my dress and slipped out the front door, a path I rarely used. I didn’t dare look in the mirror; I was too afraid of what I’d see—doubt, fear, and fragile hope tangled together. Esmir pulled up in his car, his mother and sister waiting in the backseat. I climbed in quickly, relieved by the tinted windows that shielded me from my parents’ gaze.

The courthouse ceremony was surreal. Esmir stood beside me, looking sharp in his pale blue blazer, his expression quiet and reserved. Our vows were simple, our smiles fleeting. I signed the certificate with trembling hands, glancing at Esmir, who offered a brief, reassuring nod.

But when we left, the hollowness set in. There was no honeymoon, no night spent together as husband and wife. That evening, he returned to his sister’s home, and I sat alone in mine. I picked up my journal and wrote, “This isn’t how I imagined my wedding day. No joy, no celebration—just me, trying to make sense of this choice.”

For weeks, I told no one except a few trusted friends like Nell and my manager. I couldn’t face my family’s judgment. “Another immigrant? What were you thinking?” I could already hear their words. So, I stayed silent, clinging to the hope that this time would be different.

In mid-May, Esmir gave me flowers for Mother’s Day. It was a thoughtful gesture, one that made me believe, for a moment, that he truly cared. Buoyed by his kindness, I decided to tell my mom. I sent her a picture of my updated Social Security card with my new last name and waited. She invited me over, and I found myself sitting in her living room, bracing for the worst.

“We just want to make sure you know what you’re doing,” she said cautiously. My dad nodded, his face etched with quiet concern.

Their reaction wasn’t as harsh as I’d feared, but their hesitance lingered. I defended my decision, telling them, “I believe in second chances. I’m an adult, and I can make my own choices.”

My mom’s eyes softened. “We just want you to be happy,” she said.

For a while, I let myself believe I could be. But by June, the cracks in our union became impossible to ignore. Esmir’s promises had faded, replaced by growing detachment. He relied on me financially—using my name for his Uber and DoorDash earnings—while focusing on his own goals. By September, he had taken a job as a CDL driver, spending long stretches away. I was left alone, wondering if this was really a marriage or just another cycle of me giving everything and receiving nothing.

Despite everything, I held on, hoping he might change. But by October, my hope had all but disappeared. I began drafting a letter to Esmir, pouring out the ways he had failed me—not just as a husband, but as a partner in life.

“It wasn’t just about immigration,” I wrote. “I believed we could build something real, but I can’t keep giving when I receive nothing in return.”

Each word I wrote felt like a piece of myself breaking free. By December, the letter was finished, and so was I. The marriage had been a sham in so many ways, but it forced me to confront myself. My pattern of marrying immigrants wasn’t just coincidence—it was tied to my need to feel needed, to fix others in the hope they might fix me.

“This marriage was supposed to be my four-leaf clover,” I thought bitterly. Instead, it taught me the hard-earned lesson that I needed to be my own source of strength.

As I closed the door on my fourth marriage, I resolved to prioritize myself and my children. My journey wasn’t over, but for the first time in years, I felt the weight of the past lifting, leaving room for a life I could build on my own terms.