“What?” I blurted. “You can’t be serious!”
“We are,” my mom said. “We’re not getting any younger, honey. We want to see you settled and happy. And we want grandchildren while we’re still young enough to enjoy them.”
“This is insane,” I said. “You can’t blackmail me into getting married!”
“It’s not blackmail,” my dad insisted. “It’s, uh, it’s incentive.”
I stormed out that night, furious and in disbelief. They had given me an ultimatum—find a husband within months or lose my inheritance.
I wasn’t upset about the money. It was the principle. How could they try to control my life like that?
For weeks, I ignored their calls and stayed away. Then one evening, an idea came to me.
I was walking home from work, thinking about deadlines and spreadsheets, when I saw him—a man in his late 30s sitting on the sidewalk with a cardboard sign asking for spare change.
He looked worn down, with a scruffy beard and dirty clothes, but something in his eyes made me pause. There was kindness there, and something sad.
That’s when the idea hit me. It was crazy—but it felt like the perfect answer to everything.
“Excuse me,” I said. “This might sound crazy, but, um, would you like to get married?”
His eyes widened. “I’m sorry, what?”
“Look, I know this is weird, but hear me out,” I said, taking a breath. “I need to get married ASAP. It would be a marriage of convenience. I’d provide you with a place to live, clean clothes, food, and some money. In return, you’d just have to pretend to be my husband. What do you say?”
He stared at me for a long moment, clearly unsure if I was serious.
“Lady, are you for real?” he asked.
“Completely,” I said. “I’m Miley, by the way.”
“Stan,” he replied, still confused. “And you’re seriously offering to marry a homeless guy you just met?”
I nodded.
“I know it sounds insane, but I promise I’m not a serial killer or anything. Just a desperate woman with meddling parents.”
