Free In My Father's Country by Saima Wahab Page A

they inadvertently gave me the tools—education and anger—that I needed to become who I am. For that, I’m willing to spare them shame by dwelling no further on what they did to me.
    I HAD STARTED working at a downtown import-export company that dealt mostly with soybeans and corn. Like hundreds of other carefree women all around me, I spent my lunch hour shopping. But freedom was not as sweet as I had imagined.
    I met Greg on a setup date. I was twenty-four; he was twenty-one. He’d made some miscalculations in life that made him more mature than other guys his age. He had a three-year-old son, Riley, with an ex-girlfriend from high school with whom he shared custody, and was working his way through college as a car salesman. On our second date he asked me to marry him. I didn’t want to hurt his feelings by laughing. Instead, I told him to ask me again in five years.
    Greg’s mother was English, and having lived in England until only a few years before, Greg retained enough of his British accent to grab myattention. He had seen me at the house of one of my coworkers when I was dropping her off one day. He was visiting her brother. That first meeting took less than two minutes; I was in a rush to get back on the road. He begged my coworker to set us up, so she in turn begged me to go out on one date, just one—and the rest, as they say, is history—an explosive but loving history.
    Over the years we dated Greg was always there for me, holding me while I raged and sobbed over whatever hatred the uncles were circulating about me. My fury was like an emotional roadside bomb—it injured whoever came upon me. Often, it was Greg. I said the cruelest things to him. He understood that it was not about him and that I loved him for his unconditional support. Most nights, he’d come over after work and make me tea and my favorite chicken dish, draw me a warm bath and light some candles, then make sure I was in the tub before letting himself out. I took hundreds of baths during those first years, trying to soak away my stress and anger, hoping that it would disappear down the drain with the soapy water. But of course it didn’t, and I felt restless and incomplete, even though I had the undying love of a wonderful man, in addition to a job where I was challenged daily to learn something new.
    Greg was the most caring man I’d ever met. And yet, for reasons I couldn’t articulate, even to myself, I couldn’t imagine marrying him. I knew he deserved more than I could ever offer him. I had a jaded idea of the relationship between a man and a woman, and he was the first person with whom I had ever explored that. I couldn’t seem to compromise on the littlest things, because I feared relinquishing any control, to Greg or anyone. Now, I understand that give-and-take is a necessary part of a healthy relationship. At that time, however, I was terrified that if I gave even a little of myself, I would be taken completely, again.
    Our differences over money also got in the way. I had to be financially independent. I worked forty hours a week, lived frugally, and saved as much as I could. I needed to know that I could take care of myself. What kept me up at night was the fear that one day I would have to go crawling back to the uncles because I couldn’t pay my rent and bills. Greg lived paycheck to paycheck. He would get a $500 bonus and want to splurge.The only time I was aware of him making an effort to save was for an engagement ring for me. This should have made me feel better—look, he is capable of being careful with his money—but I felt extremely anxious whenever I thought about the moment when he would sink to one knee and produce the little velvet box, forcing me to make a choice between love and what I thought was my personal freedom.
    So I lived in dread that he would propose to me and end a perfectly good relationship. When he would suggest we go to our favorite restaurant for dinner, I would worry that he was looking