He was deemed unsuitable for marriage.

“Did you ask him?” I insisted.

“Not yet. I wanted to tell you sooner.”

“What if I say no?”

At that moment, my father’s face aged ten years. “Then I’ll continue searching for a white husband, we’ll both know I won’t succeed, and after I die, you’ll spend the rest of your lives in boarding houses, at the mercy of relatives who consider you a burden.”

He was right. I hated that he was right.

“Can I meet with him? Talk to him before you make this decision, for both of you.”

“Sure. Tomorrow.”

They brought Josiah home the next morning. I was standing by the living room window when I heard heavy footsteps in the hallway. The door opened. My father entered, and then Josiah ducked—really ducked—to fit through the door.

God, he was huge. 6’10” of pure muscle and curves, his arms barely touching his body, his hands covered in burn scars that looked like they could crush stone. His tanned, bearded face…