I was raised by nuns.

They called it the Christian Home, built back in 1918 by Father José Daniel Carmona to shelter lost girls who’d had their families taken from them. It was a safe haven, or so they said—a place meant to catch the ones drifting too close to the edges. First, it was managed by a committee, then by a group of religious women. But it was too much, the weight of it, and one by one, they gave it up.

By 1947, a new group of young women, burning to serve something higher, took over. They grew into the Missionary Sisters of the Assumption, and they’ve been holding this place together ever since, carrying the echoes of those first girls.

The Christian Home started out in Puntarenas, but by 1969, it had settled in El Roble, a stone’s throw from the entrance to Monseñor Sanabria Hospital. Times changed, the world got louder, and now it’s more than a home—it’s a last line of defense for over 50 girls, the youngest just a year old, the oldest on the cusp of adulthood. It’s where they’re trying to find something steady in a world that’s anything but.

I was 7 years old when I arrived. My mother had told us we were going to visit a swimming pool place and that she would be back in 15 days to pick us up. As usual, I don’t remember the details, it’s all blurry. But I remember the crushing feeling at night that wouldn’t let me close my eyes. I’d spent nights awake for the mere fear of seeing headless horsemen galloping and trotting so hard through the desert that I could almost feel bits of sand stinging my eyes. I was afraid, petrified and though my mother was never the soft. loving.type. her presence in my life was my safe space.

There I was, in my own bed for the very first time in my short life. That was the worst part of that first night. I was used to sharing a bed with all my siblings. But educated, ‘evolved’ people value independence from an early age, believing that a big bed for a little body brings the best sleep—or so they think.

Is it normal not to have any memories of physical events, smells, places, faces, or things? I barely remember anything at all. But I do remember the feelings attached to each big event in my life.

I got married at the Arlington Court in Virginia. I wore a floral skirt that fell to my knees, my favorite wedges at the time, and a white blouse. My daughter stayed back, waiting for us in that tiny one-bedroom apartment we had. My hands were trembling, and nerves bubbled up as I spoke my vows in front of a stranger. It wasn’t just the words leaving my lips—it was the gaze of my soon-to-be husband. He has these big eyes, always a little intimidated by the world. This was a man who didn’t know much about marriage; he knew his father had married, that marriage held a certain honor. Most of his siblings were married, and so here he was, following in those footsteps. Standing there, though, I don’t think either of us truly understood what marriage meant. We were hopeful, with half-smiles on our faces, and together, those half-smiles formed something whole. We kissed—a kiss that tasted of everyday life, nothing particularly memorable—just flesh against flesh.

When we arrived home, a pair of hopeful eyes were on me, watching as if something monumental was about to change in our lives. It had just been the two of us until that point. More on that later. She, like me, thought that earning that title was prestigious, something only the elite could wear. The first few times I said ‘my husband,’ it felt truly different—especially the ‘band’ part, which was hard to fully grasp.

The word husband comes from the Old English hūsbōnda, borrowed from Old Norse. It’s made up of two parts: hūs for house and bōndi for dweller. Back then, a husband wasn’t just a partner; he was the keeper of the house, the one rooted in the walls and floors, charged with managing the little world around him. Over time, that role got reshaped, narrowed down, and boxed into the idea of a man in marriage, the provider, the one responsible for keeping things together. It’s a word heavy with old meanings—ones that linger, carrying the weight of duty, place, and unspoken expectations.

The word wife is ancient, coming from the Old English wīf, meaning simply woman. Back then, a wife wasn’t about marriage, titles, or vows—it was a word that spoke to womanhood itself, grounded in identity and presence. Over time, wife got tied down, narrowed into a role: a partner bound by expectations, duty, even sacrifice. It’s a word that feels worn, heavy with layers of history. To say wife now carries all of that weight—the promise, the care, the invisible labor. A word that once meant simply woman, now tangled up in all the things a woman is supposed to be.

Today, the words husband and wife feel loaded, weighed down by centuries of expectations and quiet rules we’re all supposed to follow. Husband—from its roots as the keeper of the house, the one who holds everything together. It’s a role that once spoke of grounding, of place and permanence. But today, how many husbands actually see themselves as householders in that old way? Now, it’s more about partnership, about standing side by side rather than holding up the entire house on one’s shoulders. The expectation of the husband has softened, broadened, yet something of that old protector role lingers, the weight of needing to be strong—whether he feels it or not. Then there’s wife, a word that began as woman, an identity unbound by marriage or children, simply wīf. And yet, centuries have worn it down, reshaped it into something narrow, a role bound up in care and service. Today, wife feels both expanded and confined.

Marriage, if you trace it back through the long corridors of human history, is something born not from love but from necessity. Around 2350 B.C., in the dust and sun of ancient Mesopotamia, it became a formal arrangement, a way to anchor alliances, to claim land, to ensure that children belonged to someone. Yet, even before this early institution took shape, people must have found ways to claim each other, to promise loyalty, for reasons more practical than romantic.

As time wore on, marriage molded itself around the needs of different cultures, becoming a symbol, a ritual, a bond that held communities together in ways words couldn’t. Only later, much later, did it become about companionship, about love, about the raw, complex longing to be seen and held by another. The journey of marriage, like so many things, is one of evolution—a resilience formed in the tension between tradition and the need to belong.

The first night my now-husband and I went to bed as a ‘married’ couple, I felt exactly as I had when I was seven years old, except now I was back to sharing a mattress. We were sleeping on a small mattress in the living room because my daughter had the only bedroom in the apartment. I struggled to fall asleep; I had spent all day waiting for something monumental to shift in my life—a kind of death by fire or death by rebirth, anything to mark the moment. But nothing extraordinary happened. This was the beginning of my descent into an abyss I am still trying to climb out of. I had so many expectations, and expectations are the worst hangmen.