Dear diary,
He came from Montreal. A student visa in one hand, and my father’s blood in the other.
They said he was family.
When he visited, I sat at the table and said, “The stew’s good, but the rice turned Chinese.”
Everyone laughed.
I smiled too.
But something felt off. Not just about the rice. About him.
His eyes lingered too long. His questions felt loaded.
I didn’t know him. He came. He ate. He left.
A week later, my dad called me from work.
He asked if my mom was home. I said no.
Then he said, “His mother called. She wants to talk… as a family.”
He assumed it was a marriage proposal.
For me.
I said no. “He’s my cousin.”
My father didn’t fight me on it. Just said, “Shame. I thought he was a good man.”
Then my mom came home—pizza box in hand. I told her the story, still laughing.
She didn’t laugh.
She exploded.
Still holding the pizza box, she chased me down the hallway.
I ran. If it wasn’t horrifying, it would’ve been hilarious.
I locked myself in the bathroom and called my aunt. Then my grandmother.
My aunt told my mom, “She’s a woman—she should choose.”
And my grandmother said, “Don’t ruin your daughters for the sake of Ismaili.”
She added, “They’re not from a good family.”
That shut it down.
I posted some things on Instagram—quotes, captions, little hints.
No names, but if you knew, you knew.
I made it clear: I won’t marry blood.
I even pretended I had someone.
No proposal came.
Then in December, he messaged me.
He said he was depressed. That his visa was falling apart. That life felt hopeless.
And I tried. I really did. I gave advice. Encouragement. Options.
But I was twenty. Not the Prime Minister. Not a lawyer. Not a therapist.
All he gave me in return was stress.
Then he asked me,
“If I died, how would you feel?”
And I said,
“I’d feel nothing.”
That night, I told my uncle—he’s a former psychologist.
He didn’t brush it off.
He said, “That’s manipulation. And if you marry him, he’ll keep doing this—until you break.”
I even admitted I had considered marrying him just to get him Canadian papers, then divorcing him.
My uncle looked at me and said,
“No. You’d be giving him a key he’d never stop turning against you.”
A few days later, my mom and grandmother picked me up. I told them everything.
My mom was quiet.
And my grandmother?
She told me something even colder than before.
When she and my grandfather were in Iran, they met his parents.
His parents were furious. Offended.
They wanted to know why their son had been refused.
They blamed my grandparents.
Thought I was theirs to give.
But my grandparents said,
“It was her decision.”
“We don’t decide who she marries.”
In that moment, I realized—
even if I had been born into a web of red flags,
not everyone around me was weaving it.
Months later, my cousin died.
I didn’t go to the funeral.
But my dad did.
And afterward, he told me:
“He came up to me and asked, ‘How is Donna?’”
He didn’t talk to me.
He couldn’t.
I had already blocked him.
The moment he asked me how I’d feel if he died.
And the truth is?
He had nothing to offer me.
No house.
No car.
No steady income.
Just instability, guilt, and emotional mess.
If I had married him,
I would’ve suffered.
My parents would’ve suffered.
And for what?
For a man who saw me as a solution—not a person?
I walked away.
And I don’t regret it.
—D.
Post-Mem Reflection: His Red Flags
He was my cousin—and still saw me as a marriage option.
He didn’t speak to me directly—his mom called my dad.
He ignored my no—over and over again.
He triggered chaos in my house—my mom literally chased me with a pizza box.
He came back months later—this time playing helpless.
He dumped his problems on me—visa, depression, and guilt.
He refused to help himself—but expected me to.
He emotionally manipulated me—“If I died, how would you feel?”
He made me feel responsible—for everything he refused to deal with.
He made me consider marrying him—for papers.
He had nothing to offer—no stability, no future.
His family blamed mine—for my decision.
He broke no-contact—through my father, at a funeral.
He never apologized—not once.
He wasn’t waving red flags.
He was the red flag.
Post-Mem Reflection: What I Learned
No is enough. I don’t owe anyone an explanation.
Blood doesn’t mean ownership. I’m not family property.
If they don’t get the hint, they won’t respect the boundary.
Emotional blackmail is still manipulation.
Caring doesn’t mean carrying.
If someone has nothing to offer but stress, that’s not a relationship—
and it’s not even a job. A job at least pays you.You can’t save someone who refuses to save themselves.
I’m not a therapist, a sponsor, or a savior.
Their suffering doesn’t entitle them to me.
The right people will protect my right to choose.
Sometimes silence keeps you safe—but speaking truth sets you free.
I felt nothing. And that wasn’t cruel. It was honest.
He lost access the second he tried to guilt his way back in.
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