The First Warning

I met Victor because my mother wanted to complete her life’s mission.

That was how she described it.

“To see you married before I die.”

I was twenty-seven then.

A public office worker.

Introverted, yes.

Single, yes.

But not unhappy.

At least, not until everyone told me I should be.

My mother began with concern.

Then worry.

Then panic.

Then accusations.

“You are too picky.”

“No one is perfect.”

“People introduce men to you out of kindness. Why don’t you appreciate it?”

“You studied too much and became stupid.”

“At your age, you should stop dreaming about love. Find someone suitable and settle down.”

I did try.

Blind dates. Dinners. Coffee meetings. Awkward walks in shopping malls.

Every time one failed, the failure became mine.

I was too cold.

Too proud.

Too unrealistic.

Too old.

Then my father had a stroke.

My mother’s kidney disease worsened until she needed regular dialysis.

After that, every conversation became heavier.

“Luna,” she said one night, crying beside my bed, “your father and I cannot accompany you forever.”

“I know.”

“Then let us see you settled. Please. Just let us finish this responsibility.”

Responsibility.

I was not a person.

I was an unfinished task.

So I gave in.

Victor’s mother knew my mother from a community dance group. Apparently, she had seen me once when I brought Mom an umbrella during a storm.

“She liked you immediately,” Mom said. “She says you look blessed.”

I later learned what blessed meant.

Fertile.

Capable of sons.

I accepted Victor’s friend request.

His first message was normal enough.

Name.

Age.

Work.

Then he asked,

“Do you drink?”

I frowned.

“Not really. I flush after one glass.”

“Same. Two beers and I’m gone,” he replied.

A few seconds later:

“We should go drinking sometime. The spirit needs release.”

I stared at the screen.

We had been speaking for less than ten minutes.

I changed the subject and asked about his work.

He owned a small barber shop.

Before I could respond, he sent another message.

“My mom says you have the kind of face that brings prosperity to a husband.”

I typed three question marks.

“She saw your photo,” he explained. “Said you look sturdy. Good for bearing sons.”

My stomach turned.

A sane woman would have blocked him.

I should have blocked him.

Instead, I thought of Mom.

Of her hospital bills.

Of her tears.

Of what she would say if Victor’s mother told her I was rude.

So I replied politely.

He asked me to open my social media feed so he could see more photos.

I felt invaded.

Still, I opened it.

He soon found an old photo of me with short hair.

“You looked good with short hair,” he said.

“Old photo. I’m growing it out now.”

“Why? Short hair suits you.”

“I bought some hairpins. I want to pin it up when it gets longer.”

He replied,

“Pinned hair gives married-woman vibes.”

I sent a shocked emoji.

He wrote,

“Just kidding.”

Then:

“Married women have charm.”

I put my phone down.

When I woke the next morning, two new messages waited.

At midnight, he had written:

“I’ll ask you out tomorrow. You look like you can definitely give birth to sons.”

At 5:30 a.m.:

“Awake, little lazy pig? Need a handsome man to wake you?”

I felt sick.

I told Mom I did not want to meet him.

I showed her the messages.

She slapped the bed and said I was impossible.

“He already said he was joking. Why are you so petty?”

“He keeps talking about sons.”

“Everyone prefers sons,” Mom said. “When I was young, if not for birth restrictions, I would have tried for one too.”

Then she cried.

She talked about Grandma disliking her because she had given birth only to me.

She talked about illness.

About death.

About wanting peace before she left this world.

So I went.

Victor looked better in person than he sounded in messages.

Tall.

Clean.

Polite.

Almost decent.

I told myself maybe I had overreacted.

Then, in the dark cinema, while I lifted my drink, he leaned over and put his mouth on my straw.

He drank from my cup.

I froze.

“I just wanted to taste yours,” he whispered near my ear.

“We ordered the same flavor,” I said.

He laughed softly.

“Yours is sweeter.”

When the lights came on, I escaped to the bathroom and called Faye.

My best friend cursed for five minutes straight.

“He’s insane,” she said. “A blind date is not a wife-delivery service. Run.”

I wanted to run.

I really did.

But I was tired.

Tired of fighting everyone.

Tired of being told I was the problem.

Tired enough to mistake surrender for peace.

That was how cages are built.

Not all at once.

One compromise at a time.