Ila Williams stood at the altar staring at her soon-to-be husband and thought, “This cannot be real life. She wanted to scream. She wanted to faint.” The man before her looked like he’d been assembled from spare parts at a horror movie warehouse. His face was a nightmare of twisted scars and sagging skin. His teeth, when he smiled, were yellow and crooked. His hair was patchy and gray, like someone had glued cotton balls to his scalp at random. and his posture hunched over like a question mark that had given up on life.
He had to be at least 70, maybe 80, and he smelled like mothballs and regret. Do you, Laya Marie Williams, take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband? The preacher asked. Ila’s mouth opened, but her brain screamed, “Say no, run. Fake a heart attack, anything.” But then she remembered her mom, sweet Patricia Williams, who worked three jobs and still couldn’t pay the medical bills, who was counting on Ila to do this one thing, marry this this creature, so they could get the money her dad had promised.
I I do, Ila croked out, and a piece of her soul died right there. You may kiss the bride, the preacher announced, sounding like he pied her. The old man leaned in, his breath smelling like ancient cheese. And Ila closed her eyes tight, praying for strength. His lips touched hers, dry, cracked, cold as a corpse. And Ila’s stomach lurched. This is my life now, she thought. Married to Frankenstein’s grandpa. But how did a smart, ambitious 22-year-old woman from Atlanta end up at the altar with a man who looked like death’s ugly cousin? Two weeks earlier, Ila was living her best broke life in a tiny Atlanta apartment with her mom, Patricia.
Money was tighter than a lid on a pickle jar. Patricia worked as a nurse’s aid at a nursing home, pulling double shifts just to keep the lights on. Ila had just graduated from community college with a graphic design degree and was freelancing for peanuts while job hunting. They were struggling, sure, but they were happy. Then Richard Williams, Ila’s deadbeat dad who’d been MIA for 20 years, showed up like a bad penny. “Layla, baby girl,” Richard announced, walking into their apartment like he owned the place.
