My first fiancé was from my hometown

For weeks I begged my parents to not accept the proposal, but soon enough it was the morning of a big engagement party.

Mine.

I sat at the dining table wishing it all away while everyone running around busy with preparations. “You could at least put on a happy face,” my mom angrily scolded.

When I realized the inevitability of my own demise, and that people actually started arriving, I went to my room and wore a dazzling crème ball gown, a matching veil, makeup, and a smile.

I danced and watched town women wrap 21 karat gold snakes around my wrists. By the end of the party I was heavy with jewelry: on both my hands, up my arms, and multiple layers around my neck. I hated the snakes.

When my fiancé arrived, they covered me with a long soft black fur coat, and I went on my first date.

On the way to Beirut, he parked near a scenic outlook, and we stepped out of the car.

“You see these mountains?” he asked pointing at the gorgeous Lebanese panoramic view.

“Yes.”

“Now they’re all yours.”

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