The logic was terrifying and flawless.
“Did you ask him?” I insisted.
“Not yet. I wanted to tell you before.”
“What if I refuse?”
At that moment, my father’s face aged ten years. “Then I’ll continue to look for a white husband, we’ll both know I’ll fail, and you’ll spend your life after my death in boarding houses, dependent on the charity of relatives who consider you a burden.”
He was right. I hated that he was right.
“Can I meet him? Talk to him before making this decision, for both of our sakes.”
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