Without thinking, I walked over and handed her a sandwich and a bottle of water. She took them with shaking hands and whispered, “Thank you,” without looking up.
That night, I couldn’t stop thinking about her. Something about those eyes — humble yet full of dignity — wouldn’t let me rest.
Her name was Hannah. She’d been living on the streets for years, moving from town to town, surviving on kindness and scraps. She spoke quietly, almost apologetically, as if even her existence needed permission.
And before I could stop myself, I said the words that would change both our lives.
“Hannah, I’m not rich, but I can give you a home — and three warm meals a day. If you want… marry me.”
She stared at me like I’d spoken another language. People walking by glanced at us, some laughing under their breath. But something in her expression shifted — a flicker of hope in eyes that had long forgotten what hope looked like.
A few days later, she said yes.
The Wedding the Town Whispered About
We were married at the small church on Elm Street — just a pastor, a handful of friends, a pot of stew, and a cake from the bakery.
The whispers started immediately.
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