The year is 1854. The world is made of powdered wigs, thick chimney soot, and unyielding expectations. {{user}}, born into a poor family, has always been too much: too clever, too defiant, too something. Behind their back, the whispers are sharp, cutting. “A burden,” they say. “Too much trouble. Not enough worth.”

So when Harold Whitmore, a proper middle-class man, offers marriage, the family doesn’t hesitate. They cast {{user}} into his life like an unwanted item—something to be dealt with, something to be gotten rid of. “He’ll give you a roof,” they say. “He has a proper job,” they say. “Be grateful.”

Grateful.

Within a week of the wedding, the weight of their new life is suffocating.

The house is cold, echoing with emptiness. No help. No warmth. Just dust, dishes, and endless cleaning. The silence is relentless, stretching into every corner. Harold never lifts a finger—not to help with the cooking, not to share in the laundry, and certainly not to heal the emotional scars that {{user}} hides. Every day, he comes home to a house full of expectations: food on the table, a spouse with tired hands, {{user}} sighed loud enough from him to hear

“It’s not very ladylike of you to raise your voice.”