The Friday We Chose Ourselves

The courthouse sat on the corner of Maple and Third, a modest brick building that most people only entered for parking tickets or marriage licenses. For me, it would mark the beginning of something I had been waiting for nearly a decade—freedom. Not just the freedom of love, but the freedom to stop living by the expectations of others.

When I told my family that my fiancé and I were getting married, the reactions weren’t what I had dreamed of. I had imagined my mother crying happy tears, my father clapping my fiancé on the back, maybe my brother—before prison—teasing me for finally settling down. But life rarely goes as you script it. Instead, my announcement turned into another battleground in a family that had already lost too much.

We’d been together for three years. I was twenty-nine, so was he. We met in the least romantic way possible—at a laundromat. I remember him dropping an entire basket of clothes when I smiled at him. There was an awkward pause, a shared laugh, and somehow, that moment bloomed into something steady and real. Love, for us, was built on quiet mornings and mutual understanding. It wasn’t dramatic; it was solid. Which is why the drama that followed our engagement felt so foreign, so unnecessary.

It started with a phone call from my mother.

“You can’t set the date yet,” she said, her tone already heavy. “It wouldn’t be right while your brother’s still inside.”

I thought I had misheard. “Mom… he’s going to be there for another five years. Maybe longer.”

“All the more reason to wait,” she insisted. “Family should be together for moments like this.”

Family. That word always came with strings. My brother’s mistakes had cast a shadow long before his sentence did. He wasn’t a bad person—just lost, angry, and impulsive. When he got sent away, part of me mourned not just for him, but for the version of our family that used to exist. But I refused to put my own life on pause for a mistake I didn’t make.

When I spoke to him over the phone, I hoped he would understand. I wanted him to tell me that I deserved happiness, that I should go ahead and marry the man I loved. Instead, his voice turned cold.

“You’d really do that while I’m locked up? You’d celebrate while I’m still in here?”

“It’s not about celebrating,” I said softly. “It’s about moving forward. You’ll still be my brother. That won’t change.”

But to him, it was betrayal. And once he decided to feel betrayed, the rest of my family followed. My parents stopped talking about wedding venues and started talking about patience. My cousins whispered behind my back, calling me selfish. Even my father—who rarely spoke up—told me I was being inconsiderate.

“Five years isn’t forever,” he said one evening. “Your brother will get out, and then you can do it right.”

Five years. To them, it was a small sacrifice. To me, it was an eternity.

Meanwhile, the person I was supposed to marry—Michael—watched quietly as the pressure built. He never told me what to do, never complained. But I could see the weariness in his eyes every time my phone buzzed with another guilt-laced message.

One night, sitting on our couch surrounded by half-finished wedding plans and unopened envelopes, I finally said it out loud.
“I can’t do this anymore.”

He didn’t ask what I meant. He already knew.

“Then let’s not,” he said simply. “Let’s stop waiting for their permission.”

That was when the idea of eloping stopped being a fantasy and became a decision. We didn’t want to hurt anyone, but we were done being suffocated by expectations that weren’t ours.

So, we chose Friday.

The week leading up to it was strangely peaceful. My family thought I had postponed everything. My mother even sounded relieved when I told her we were “taking a break to think.” It wasn’t a lie—just not the truth she expected. I spent that week packing away the stress, the resentment, the endless arguments. Every dress fitting, every guest list debate, every teary phone call—all replaced by quiet certainty.

On Thursday night, I couldn’t sleep. The air in our apartment was still, heavy with anticipation. Michael lay beside me, his hand resting lightly on my arm.
“Are you sure?” he whispered.

I turned to face him. “For the first time in a long time… yes.”

Friday morning came with a pale sunrise and the smell of coffee. I wore a simple white dress I’d found in a thrift store a year ago. He wore his best shirt, slightly wrinkled, because he’d forgotten to iron it. It was perfect in its imperfection. We drove in silence, not because there was nothing to say, but because words couldn’t hold what we felt.

The courthouse clerk barely looked up as we walked in. “Marriage license?” she asked, tapping on her keyboard. I nodded. My heart was steady. For the first time in months, it wasn’t racing with anxiety.

We waited on a wooden bench until a judge came to fetch us. She was kind, older, with a smile that made me think she’d seen countless couples like us—some desperate, some defiant, some deeply in love. We stood before her, holding hands, and repeated the words that have bound countless souls together.

When it was done, I half expected to feel guilt, or maybe sadness. But all I felt was peace. The kind that comes when you finally stop apologizing for wanting your own happiness.

Afterwards, we went to a small diner across the street. Michael ordered pancakes. I ordered coffee and toast. We laughed about how unceremonious it all was, how no one would believe that this tiny moment was the most important day of our lives.

“We should tell them,” I said between bites. “Eventually.”

“Eventually,” he agreed. “But not today. Today’s just ours.”

That evening, I sat by the window, watching the sun sink below the skyline. My phone buzzed—another message from my mother, probably checking in. I turned it face-down on the table and let the silence stretch.

For the first time, I didn’t feel like a bad daughter, or a selfish sister. I felt like a woman who had finally chosen herself.

Marriage, I realized, isn’t just about love. It’s about choosing a life that’s truly yours, even if no one else understands. My brother will still be in prison tomorrow, my parents will still be disappointed when they find out—but for once, their expectations don’t define me.

When I looked over at Michael, he smiled in that quiet way of his—the same smile that started everything in that laundromat years ago. And in that moment, I knew we’d done the right thing.

Love, after all, isn’t about waiting for the perfect moment.
It’s about creating one—no matter who disapproves.

And so, on that simple Friday, in a small courthouse on Maple and Third, we did just that.

We chose each other.
We chose now.