For seven months, every single night at 2:47 in the morning, my husband would stand right next to my bed in the dark, just watching me sleep. He did it until the day I pretended to be asleep and heard what he was whispering.

And child—what I discovered destroyed my life forever.

My name is Hattie. Hattie May Ellington.

Today I am 91 years old. I turned 91 on March 3rd of this year.

I was born back in 1934 in Mon, Georgia, and I have lived through a lot in this life. I have gone through situations that, when I tell folks today, they don’t believe me.

But everything I’m going to tell you here is the gospel truth. You can ask my daughters, my grandchildren—anyone who knows me.

I do not lie. I have never lied in my life.

Before I go on with my story, I would like to ask a favor of you watching me. If you can leave a like on this video and subscribe to the channel Grandma’s Journal, it would make me very happy.

I know you young folks today like these internet things, and they told me this helps other people hear my story. And I want my story to be known.

I want other women to know they are not alone. So leave that like, subscribe to the channel, and tell me in the comments where you are watching from.

Are you from Atlanta or Birmingham, or maybe from Georgia like me? Or are you watching from far away in another country?

Tell me. I love to know.

My grandson always shows me the comments, and I get all emotional seeing folks from all over the United States and other countries watching me.

Well, now I am going to start my story from the beginning, because otherwise you won’t understand everything that happened.

I married Otis Washington on October 15th, 1955. I was 21 years old. He was 26.

It was a marriage sort of arranged by our families, as was common back in those days in the country. My daddy knew his daddy.

They were deacons in the same church and thought we made a good match. I barely knew Otis before the wedding.

We had seen each other about three or four times, always with our parents nearby. He was handsome, tall, strong, and hardworking.

My daddy said he was a serious man—a man of his word—and that he would take good care of me.

I got married in a white dress at the Baptist church in Mon. It was a big celebration with plenty of food, gospel music, and the whole congregation was there.

I remember wearing the lace dress that had belonged to my grandmother, which my mama had kept in a trunk.

It was a hot day, plenty of sun, and I was nervous as could be. I didn’t really know this man I was going to spend the rest of my life with.

After the wedding, we went to live on a small farm that his daddy had given us. It was about fifty acres of land near Cordell, deep in the Georgia countryside, far from everything.

The house was simple, made of wood—just three rooms.

There was a living room that was also the kitchen, a bedroom, and a small pantry in the back. The bathroom was outside, an outhouse.

We didn’t have electric lights. We used kerosene lamps.

The water came from a well in the yard.

Otis worked in the fields. He planted corn, collard greens, sweet potatoes, and raised some chickens and hogs.

I took care of the house, washed clothes on a scrubboard, cooked on a wood stove, and sewed our clothes.

It was a hard life, but it was the life we knew. Everybody lived like that back then.

My first daughter was born in 1957 on April 23rd. I named her Ruth because I liked that biblical name.

It seemed beautiful to me.

The birth was at home with Miss Sebastiana, the midwife for the region.

It was a difficult, long labor. I suffered a lot, but when I saw my daughter—my first baby girl—I forgot everything.

She was so tiny, so perfect.

In 1959, Ruby was born on August 8th. Another difficult birth, but this time I knew what to expect.

Ruby was different from Ruth. Ruth was quiet, calm.

Ruby was born crying, making noise, demanding attention.

Two beautiful girls.

And in 1962 came Pearl, my baby. She was born on December 1st.

A calmer birth than the others, thank the Lord. Pearl was small, petite, but sharp and smart.

Three daughters. Three girls.

Otis wanted a boy. He wanted a son to help him in the fields.

But the Lord gave me three girls, and I was grateful for each one.

Otis was always a very quiet man. He wasn’t one for talking, nor was he one for affection.

He never hit me—never raised a hand against me. I have to say that.

But he was never affectionate either. He never hugged me just to hug me.

He never told me he loved me. He never gave me a gift.

It was as if we were two strangers living in the same house.

He worked, I worked, we raised the girls, but there wasn’t that thing of a couple in love like you see in the movies.

There just wasn’t.

Sometimes I wondered if it had to be that way—if all marriages were like that.

I talked to the other women at church, at gatherings, and it seemed like, yes, that was normal.

The husband worked, the wife took care of the house, and that was it.

Love was something for young single girls. After marriage, it was obligation.

It was duty.

The girls were growing, time was passing, and life went on in that routine—waking up early, making coffee, taking care of the house, the girls, the clothes, the food.

Otis going out to the fields before the sun came up, coming back when it was getting dark, eating dinner in silence, going to bed, sleeping, and starting it all over again the next day.

I won’t lie to you. I wasn’t happy, but I wasn’t completely unhappy either.

It was the life I had, and I accepted it. I had my daughters.

I had food on the table. I had a roof.

Many folks had less than that.

That was how it went for thirteen years. Thirteen years of a quiet marriage—without great joys, but without big problems either.

Until January of 1968 arrived.

January 1968.

I will never forget it.

It had rained a lot at the end of December. The fields were looking good.

The corn had come in well.

Otis was even calmer—less serious.

The girls were on break from school. Ruth was eleven years old and already helped me a lot around the house.

Ruby was nine. She was in that mischievous stage—climbing trees, getting all her clothes dirty.

And Pearl, six years old, still little, but already sharp.

It was a Tuesday—January 16th, 1968.

I remember it well because the next day was a special prayer meeting at church and I always lit a candle.

So it was the 16th.

It had been a normal day. I got up early, made the coffee.

Otis went to the fields.

I stayed to look after the girls.

I made lunch, washed clothes.

In the afternoon, I mended a dress of Ruby’s that was torn.

I made dinner—grits and greens with a bit of cured ham that was left over.

We ate.

The girls went to sleep early because they were tired from playing under the sun all day.

Otis and I stayed a while in the living room. He was smoking his pipe and I was darning a sock.

Then we went to bed.

It must have been around nine at night when we lay down.

I always slept on the left side of the bed, next to the wall. Otis slept on the right side, next to the door.

It had been that way since we got married.

The bed was wooden, old, and creaked all over when we moved.

The mattress was filled with corn husks—hard and uncomfortable—but it was what we had.

I fell asleep.

I slept normally.

I was tired.

It had been a heavy day.

And then, in the middle of the night, I woke up.

I woke up suddenly, the way you wake up when you feel something is wrong.

You know when you have the certainty that someone is watching you? That was the feeling.

I opened my eyes slowly, still half groggy with sleep.

The house was dark—pitch black.

There was no moon that night.

Everything was black.

But child, I saw his silhouette—the silhouette of Otis standing by the bed.

Just standing there.

My heart started racing.

I got so scared that for a second I couldn’t even breathe.

I thought it was a burglar.

I thought it was something bad.

But then my eyes adjusted to the dark and I saw it was him.

Otis—standing on my side of the bed, watching me.

I was so scared I couldn’t say anything.

I just lay there, looking at him, and he kept standing there.

He didn’t say anything, didn’t move.

He just stayed there.

After a while—I don’t know how long, maybe a few minutes—he went back to his side of the bed and lay down without saying a word, as if nothing had happened.

I stayed awake the rest of the night.

My heart was pounding, my hands sweating cold.

I kept thinking about what had happened—why he had done that, why he had stood there watching me like that.

In the morning, when we woke up, I pretended nothing had happened.

I made the coffee.

Everything normal.

But I kept watching him, trying to see if he was acting different—if there was anything strange.

He was normal, just like always.

Quiet, serious, eating his biscuit with butter, drinking his black coffee.

I told myself it must have been something in my head—that I had dreamed it.

Or that he had gotten up to use the outhouse and stood there by accident.

What do I know?

I tried to convince myself it was nothing.

But the next night, the same thing happened again.

I woke up in the middle of the night, and there he was—standing next to the bed, watching me.

This time, I looked at the clock we had on the wall, an old wind-up clock his daddy had given him.

It read 2:47.

2:47.

He stood there for about ten minutes.

I lay there pretending to be asleep, but I was wide awake—heart pounding—trying to understand.

Then he went back to bed.

The next morning during coffee, I asked him,

“Otis, did you get up last night?”

He looked at me with a face like he didn’t know what I was talking about.

“Get up for what? To go to the bathroom or something?”

“No, I slept all night. Why?”

“Nothing. I thought I heard a noise.”

And that was it.

Subject closed.

He didn’t know, or he pretended not to know.

I don’t know.

But child, it happened again the third night, and the fourth, and the fifth.

Every single blessed day, always at the same time.

2:47 in the morning.

I started to get desperate.

I started to be afraid to sleep.

I would stay awake waiting for that time to come.

And when it did—there he was.

Standing.

Watching.

Saying nothing.

Doing nothing.

Just watching.

I tried to talk to him again.

I asked if he was sick, if he was sleeping poorly, if he had any trouble.

He always said everything was fine—that I was imagining things.

But I wasn’t imagining.

Every night, 2:47, he was there.

I started to lose weight.

I couldn’t eat right.

I couldn’t sleep.

I lived tired.

Nervous.

The girls noticed.

Ruth asked me if I was sick.

I told her it was just tiredness, but she didn’t believe me.

I saw in her eyes that she knew something was wrong.

February passed.

March passed.

April.

May.

June.

July.

Starting August—seven months.

Seven months of this.

Every single blessed day, 2:47 in the morning, he would get up, go to my side of the bed, stand there watching me, and then go back.

I started to think I was going crazy.

I swear to the Lord, I thought I was losing my mind, because how does a man do something like that every day at the same time and act like nothing happened in the morning?

I spent the whole day thinking about it while I washed clothes on the scrubboard, while I cooked, while I swept the house.

My mind wouldn’t stop—thinking, thinking—trying to understand what he was doing, why he was doing it.

At first, I thought he was sleepwalking.

You know those folks who get up asleep and walk around the house.

I had heard of that.

My Auntie Clara used to tell how her husband would get up at night asleep and go to the kitchen, open the cupboard door, and stand there.

So I thought Otis might be doing that.

But child, sleepwalkers don’t stand in the same spot every day, and they don’t do it at exactly the same time.

2:47.

Every blessed day like clockwork.

It couldn’t be sleepwalking.

Then I thought it might be a sickness.

Some sickness of the mind.

I had heard of people who got sick in the head and started doing strange things.

Old Mr. Jenkins from the general store had gotten like that a few years back.

He started talking to himself, seeing things that didn’t exist.

They had to put him in a home.

Was it that? Was Otis sick?

I thought about talking to someone.

But who?

We lived far from everything.

The nearest house was Miss Idella Banks’s place, about a mile away.

We didn’t have a telephone.

We didn’t have anything.

To go to town, you had to take the wagon.

It took over an hour.

And what was I going to say—that my husband stood watching me sleep in the middle of the night?

They were going to think I was crazy.

My mama lived in Mon, far away.

We didn’t see each other much—only at Christmas or sometimes at Easter.

There was no way to go there and come back the same day.

And even if I went, what was she going to tell me?

My mama was one of those old-fashioned women, you know—one of those who think a woman has to endure everything in silence.

You got married, you have to bear it.

She always said it wasn’t going to do any good to tell.

I tried to talk to the neighbors.

One Sunday after service, I was chatting with Miss Idella and Miss Sadie at the church door.

We were talking about household things, food—that women’s talk—and I took a risk.

“Have y’all ever had any trouble with your husband’s sleep?”

Miss Idella looked at me curiously.

“How do you mean, Hattie?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Like getting up at night, things like that.”

Miss Sadie laughed.

“Mine snores so loud it’s scary. Wakes up the neighbors, but getting up only to go to the outhouse.”

And I couldn’t go on.

I didn’t have the courage to tell.

They were going to think it was weird.

They were going to start gossiping.

Small towns are like that.

Everybody finds out everything.

At home, the situation was getting worse.

I was losing a lot of weight.

My clothes were hanging off me.

My face had gotten sharp.

I had deep, dark circles under my eyes.

I looked in the mirror and didn’t recognize myself.

I looked like a ghost.

The girls were worried.

Ruth—poor thing—at eleven years old had already realized something was very wrong.

She asked me constantly,

“Is Mama sick?”

“No, baby. It’s just tiredness.”

“But I see you don’t eat right. You don’t sleep right. Is there something, Mama?”

“There’s nothing, Ruth. Don’t you worry.”

But I saw in her eyes that she didn’t believe me.

And I felt terrible for lying to my daughter.

But what was I going to tell her?

That her daddy stood watching me sleep every night?

A child of eleven wouldn’t understand.

Ruby was acting strange, too.

She was always the most talkative of the three—the happiest, the one who gave the most trouble.

But in those days, she was quiet.

Didn’t play like before.

She stayed in her corner, silent.

I thought it was just kid stuff—a phase—but it worried me.

And Pearl—little thing—six years old—also felt something was wrong.

Children feel those things.

She spent all her time hugging me, clinging to me as if she were afraid I would leave.

Otis kept on the same.

Working in the fields.

Coming back at night.

Eating in silence.

Sleeping.

And every early morning at 2:47, getting up and coming to watch me.

I started to be afraid.

Truly afraid.

Because you hear stories, you know.

I heard talk of men who killed their wives while they slept.

Of men who lost their minds and did terrible things.

What if it was that?

What if one of those nights he came with something in his hand—a knife, a pillow to smother me?

I started sleeping with fear.

Or rather, not sleeping.

I lay awake all night waiting, watching the clock.

2:40.

2:45.

2:47.

And there he came.

There was one night I pretended to be deeply asleep.

I breathed deep and slow like folks do when they’re really sleeping.

I wanted to see what he would do.

He stayed there longer than normal.

He stayed about fifteen, twenty minutes.

And I heard his breathing—heavy, agitated—like he was nervous.

At some point, he leaned down, got close to my face.

I felt his hot breath, smelling of tobacco.

I thought he was going to kiss me or kill me.

I didn’t know.

My heart was beating so hard I was sure he was going to hear it.

But he didn’t do anything.

He just stayed there very close, breathing.

Then he got up and went back to bed.

That night, I didn’t sleep anymore.

I lay awake until dawn, trembling, sweating cold, feeling like I was going to have a stroke.

The next day, I was so tired I almost fainted while making lunch.

I had to sit on the kitchen floor, dizzy, seeing everything spin.

Ruth found me like that and got desperate.

“Mama. Mama, what happened?”

“Nothing, child. Just a dizzy spell.”

“I’m going to call Daddy.”

“No, no need. It passed already.”

She helped me up, took me to the bedroom, laid me down, brought me sugar water, and sat holding my hand, looking at me with those worried eyes.

In that moment, I almost told her.

I almost said,

“Child, your daddy is doing something very strange.”

But I didn’t.

She was a child.

I couldn’t put that in her head.

I was getting sick.

Truly sick.

I couldn’t eat.

My stomach turned at everything.

I lost nearly eighteen pounds in two months.

Eighteen pounds.

I, who was always thin, was down to skin and bones.

My clothes were falling off my body.

Miss Idella found me at the store one day and got scared.

“Hattie, for the love of God, what happened to you? Are you sick?”

“No, Miss Idella, just tired.”

“Tired? Girl, you skin and bones. Go to the doctor.”

But I didn’t go.

The doctor was expensive, and he was far away.

And what was the doctor going to do?

He was going to give me medicine to sleep.

It wasn’t going to solve the problem.

The problem was Otis.

And I didn’t know what to do with him.

There was one night—it was already July—when I tried to stay awake on purpose.

I drank strong black coffee all day.

I didn’t lie down.

I stayed in the living room sewing until nearly midnight.

When I went to bed, I forced my eyes open, pinching my arm every time I was about to nod off.

I managed to stay awake until 2:30.

I was waiting.

I wanted to see when he was going to get up.

I wanted to catch him while I was awake and ask,

“What are you doing, Otis?”

But child, it didn’t work.

I fell asleep.

I don’t know if it was two minutes or five minutes, but I fell asleep.

And when I woke up with that same startle as always, he was already there—standing by the bed, watching me.

I got so mad at myself, I wanted to cry.

How had I fallen asleep?

I started thinking he knew when I was awake—that he waited for me to sleep to get up.

Did he lie there awake waiting for me to sleep?

Was that it?

That scared me even more, because if he waited for me to sleep, it was because he didn’t want me to know.

It was because he was hiding something.

I started watching him during the day.

How he looked at me.

How he talked to the girls.

Looking for some sign—something different.

But he was always the same.

Quiet.

Serious.

Working in the fields.

There was a Sunday we went to church.

We went every Sunday.

It was mandatory.

I was praying—asking the Lord for help, asking for protection.

And the Reverend preached about demons that tempt people, about evil things that get into men’s heads.

I left that service thinking it could be that.

That it could be the devil tempting Otis, making him do those things.

It seems silly, but that’s how I was raised.

Believing in those things.

And when you are desperate, you believe in everything.

I put a Bible under my pillow.

I prayed every night before sleeping.

I asked for protection.

But it didn’t work.

2:47.

There he was.

The girls were getting quieter and quieter.

Ruby especially was acting very strange.

I realized she had lost weight, too.

Her little face was thinner.

Her clothes were loose.

I asked her if she was eating well at school.

“Yes, Mama.”

“Are you sure? You’re very thin.”

“Yes, I’m eating, Mama. I just don’t have much appetite.”

It seemed odd.

But I didn’t insist.

I had so many things in my head, I couldn’t worry about everything.

Until one day—late July, early August—Ruby came home from school and went straight to the bedroom.

She didn’t want to eat.

She said her stomach hurt.

I went to see.

She was lying down, curled up, hand on her stomach.

“What did you eat, Ruby?”

“Nothing, Mama. I didn’t eat anything different.”

“Do you have a fever?”

I touched her forehead.

No fever.

“No, Mama. It’s just a stomach ache.”

“I’m going to make you some tea.”

I made her peppermint tea.

I gave it to her.

She stayed there quiet.

I left the room, but I stayed worried.

Later, when I went to bring her dinner, I went into the room and saw.

I saw she had been crying.

Her eyes were red, swollen.

“Ruby, are you crying? What happened?”

“Nothing, Mama. It’s the pain.”

But I knew it wasn’t just the pain.

There was something.

I stood looking at her, and for the first time in months, I stopped thinking about Otis and really paid attention to my daughter.

She was different.

Very different.

It wasn’t just the weight loss.

It was her manner.

Her way of looking.

Her way of talking.

There was fear in her eyes.

Fear of what?

I tried to talk, but she didn’t want to speak.

She said she was sleepy.

Wanted to sleep.

I left the room, but I stayed thinking about what was happening to Ruby.

That night, I couldn’t stop thinking about my daughters—about all three of them.

Ruth worried about me.

Ruby—strange, skinny, afraid.

Pearl—clinging to me all the time.

What was happening to my family?

2:47.

He got up like always.

Went to my side like always.

Stood there like always.

But this time, I wasn’t afraid of him.

I had courage.

A courage so big I felt like getting up and screaming,

“What are you doing? Why are you destroying this family?”

But I didn’t scream.

I stayed quiet—pretending to sleep like always.

When he went back to bed, I lay there thinking.

Thinking a lot.

I needed to discover what was happening.

I needed to hear what he was doing while he stood there.

Because he was doing something—thinking something—and I needed to know what.

That was when I had the idea.

I was going to pretend I was asleep—but I was going to pretend for real.

This time I was going to breathe deep, slow, like someone truly asleep.

I was going to lie completely still.

I was going to make him believe I was in a deep sleep.

And I was going to stay quiet—very quiet—to hear.

To hear if he said anything.

If he made any noise—whatever it was—I would mark it in my head.

Monday, August 12th, 1968.

It was going to be that day.

I was going to discover the truth that day.

I spent all Sunday nervous.

I couldn’t go to church.

I said I felt sick.

I stayed home thinking.

Planning.

Otis went out with the girls.

I stayed alone.

I went to the bedroom and looked at the bed—that old creaky bed where I slept every day, where I woke up every day at 2:47, seeing that man watching me.

Tomorrow I was going to know the truth.

I didn’t know if I wanted to know.

But I needed to.

That Sunday night, I ate dinner very early.

I took a bath.

I lay down early, too—around eight.

I said I had a headache.

Otis stayed in the living room smoking.

The girls went to sleep.

I lay there, eyes open, staring at the ceiling, listening to the noises of the house—the creaking of the wood, the wind hitting the window, the crickets outside.

Otis came to bed around nine.

He lay on his side like always.

He stayed quiet.

I kept my eyes open, waiting.

My heart beating fast.

My hands sweating.

I couldn’t mess up.

I couldn’t fall asleep.

I had to be awake.

I had to hear.

Finally, I managed to sleep.

It must have been around eleven at night.

A light sleep full of nightmares.

I dreamed of weird things—of Otis, of the girls, of the house catching fire.

I woke up in the early morning and looked at the clock.

2:30.

I still had fifteen minutes.

Fifteen minutes to discover the truth.

Fifteen minutes to go.

Fifteen minutes until 2:47.

Fifteen minutes until that man’s secret was going to have a name.

I was lying there completely still.

Body tense.

Stiff as a board.

I tried to relax.

I knew I couldn’t be tense like that or he would notice.

It had to look like I was truly asleep.

Deep sleep.

I breathed deep, slow.

I let the air out through my mouth real slow.

I let my arms go limp at the sides of my body.

I turned a little on my side in the position I always slept.

I closed my eyes.

Relaxed my face.

My shoulders.

My legs.

I lay like that, breathing deep and slow, trying to look like a sleeping person.

Otis was on his side of the bed.

I heard his breathing.

It seemed like he was asleep.

But I wasn’t sure.

Is he truly asleep, or is he awake waiting—just like me?

The minutes passed slowly.

Very slowly.

Every second seemed like an hour.

I wanted to look at the clock, but I couldn’t.

I had to keep pretending.

The silence of the house was heavy.

Only the wind outside and his breathing could be heard.

And my breathing—which I tried to keep calm, deep, like a sleeping person.

My heart was beating hard.

So hard I was afraid he would hear it.

Thump, thump, thump, thump.

Beating in my chest like a drum.

I tried to calm down.

I thought of peaceful things.

The garden.

The chickens pecking in the yard.

The girls playing.

But I couldn’t calm down.

Because I knew it was time.

Suddenly, I heard the bed creak.

He was moving.

I stayed still—eyes closed—breathing deep.

I heard him get up.

The mattress sank on his side when he leaned to rise.

The bed groaned.

He stood up.

I was waiting for him to come to my side like always.

And he came.

I heard his steps slowly—very slowly—on the wooden floor of the house.

Creak.

Creak.

Creak.

Step slow, careful, like someone who doesn’t want to make noise.

He stopped on my side of the bed.

I felt his presence there close.

Very close.

I kept breathing deep and slow, pretending deep sleep.

He stood there like he always did.

I felt he was watching me.

Even with my eyes closed, I felt the weight of his gaze on me.

My heart raced.

Thump, thump, thump, thump.

Beating very fast.

I tried to control it.

I couldn’t show that I was awake.

He stayed there.

How long?

I don’t know.

A minute.

Two.

Three.

It seemed like an eternity.

Then he moved.

I heard a noise like he had crouched down—got on his knees.

Lord have mercy.

He was on his knees next to the bed.

I stayed still—breathing—pretending.

And then, child, he started to speak.

His voice was so low, so weak, I could barely hear.

It was a whisper, almost a breath.

“Please, Hattie,” he said.

“Please, Hattie, forgive me.”

Forgive what?

What?

He kept whispering, his voice breaking, trembling.

“Forgive me for what I did. For what I promised. I shouldn’t have. I shouldn’t have done that.”

My whole body went tense, but I kept pretending to sleep.

I needed to hear more.

Needed to understand.

He wept quietly, stifled, like someone crying but not wanting anyone to hear.

“I was desperate, Hattie. I was scared. The debt was too big. I had no way to pay it.”

He swallowed, his words catching.

“Debt… debt,” he cried.

“Three thousand dollars. Three thousand. I didn’t have it. I don’t have it.”

He took a shaky breath.

“And he was going to kill me, Hattie. Mr. Thorne was going to kill me.”

Mr. Thorne.

Silas Thorne.

The wealthy landowner.

The widower.

My blood ran cold.

“So I promised,” he whispered.

“God forgive me. I promised our girl—our Ruby.”

No.

No, no, no.

He promised my daughter.

My Ruby.

The nine-year-old child.

“When she turns fifteen, she marries him. That was what I promised. To pay the debt. To save my life.”

I wanted to scream.

Wanted to get up.

Wanted to grab that man by the neck and squeeze until he stopped breathing.

But I stayed still because I needed to hear everything.

Everything.

He kept crying, sobbing.

“It was January 16th. Early morning. I had lost everything playing poker at Big Joe’s juke joint. Everything, Hattie.”

“All the money we had saved. And I still ended up owing three thousand to Mr. Thorne.”

He had gambled our money.

The money I scraped together sewing.

The money we saved for hard times.

He gambled it all.

“I came home that morning wanting to die,” he whispered.

“Wanted to hang myself. Wanted to disappear.”

“But then he showed up here at the house the next day, Mr. Thorne, and made the proposal.”

What proposal?

He answered himself, voice cracking.

“He said he would forget the whole debt—if I promised him Ruby’s hand when she turned fifteen.”

“He is fifty-two, Hattie. Fifty-two. And our girl is nine.”

I was shaking on the inside—trembling with rage, with horror, with disgust.

“I said yes,” he whispered.

“God forgive me. I said yes because I was afraid.”

“Afraid he would kill me. Afraid of losing everything.”

“I am a coward, Hattie. I am a coward.”

“That’s why I came every morning. 2:47. The time I made the promise. The time I sold our daughter.”

“Since that day I don’t sleep well. Every day I wake up at this time and come here.”

“I come to ask your forgiveness because I know when you find out you will never forgive me. Never.”

He was right.

I was never going to forgive him.

“But I don’t have the courage to tell you,” he whispered.

“I don’t have the courage to see your face when you know. To see Ruby’s face when she knows her daddy promised her to an old man.”

My Ruby.

My baby who had been acting strange—skinny—afraid.

She knew.

Someone must have told her.

He kept crying, voice getting lower, more broken.

“Six years left. Six years until she turns fifteen.”

“And then I’m going to have to hand her over.”

“I’m going to have to take my daughter to Silas Thorne like she was cattle—like she was a thing.”

No.

That wasn’t going to happen.

I wasn’t going to allow it.

“Forgive me, Hattie,” he whispered.

“Forgive me for being so cowardly, so weak, so evil.”

He stayed there longer, crying softly, whispering words I didn’t understand well—asking forgiveness, asking God, asking me.

Then he got up.

I heard him rise.

I heard his steps going back to his side of the bed.

I heard the bed creak when he lay down.

I lay there still—eyes closed—breathing, still pretending sleep.

But inside I was destroyed.

Shattered.

Like someone had ripped the heart out of my chest and stomped on it.

My daughter—my Ruby—promised to an old man to pay a gambling debt.

I waited.

I waited until I was sure he was asleep.

His breathing became heavy, deep.

He fell asleep.

Then I opened my eyes.

The house was dark.

Everything black.

But my eyes were already used to the darkness.

I looked at the ceiling—the old wooden ceiling of our house.

Everything made sense now.

Ruby was strange because she knew.

Someone had told her.

Children hear everything.

She knew her daddy had promised her in marriage.

My nine-year-old child.

Knowing that in six years she was going to have to marry a fifty-two-year-old man—who would be fifty-eight then—an old man who could be her grandfather.

I thought of all the times I had seen her quiet, skinny, afraid—and me thinking it was a phase, kid stuff.

How blind I was.

How did I not notice?

Because I was worried about Otis.

About him watching me in the early morning.

I was so focused on my fear.

I didn’t see my daughter’s fear.

I lay there the rest of the night without sleeping.

Just thinking.

Planning.

I wasn’t going to let that happen.

Never.

Otis could have promised whatever he wanted.

Silas Thorne could think he had a right to my daughter.

I wasn’t going to allow it.

I watched the day dawn through the crack in the window.

Light entering slowly.

The rooster crowing outside.

The chickens starting to cluck.

I got out of bed carefully without making noise.

Otis was still sleeping—or pretending to sleep.

Didn’t matter.

I went to the kitchen.

Lit the wood stove.

Put water to boil for coffee.

Stood there watching the fire—flames dancing—my head not stopping.

Thinking.

Thinking.

I needed to get the girls out of there.

Needed to leave.

But where?

I had no money.

I had nothing.

How was I going to support three daughters alone?

I thought about going back to my mama’s house in Mon, but my mama was old, sick.

She couldn’t take care of me and three granddaughters.

I thought of my sister, Eda Freeman.

She lived in Atlanta.

Had a few more resources.

Would she take me in?

I made the coffee.

Set the table.

Biscuits.

Butter.

Peach preserves I had made.

The girls woke up, came to the kitchen.

Ruth rubbing her eyes.

Pearl yawning.

Ruby.

I looked at Ruby—at her little face, at her eyes—and she looked at me.

And in her eyes, I saw that she knew.

She knew that I knew.

How did she know?

I don’t know.

But she knew.

I hugged her.

I hugged my child.

Squeezed her tight.

“Are you okay, Mama?”

“Yes, baby. I’m okay.”

But I wasn’t.

Nothing was okay.

Otis appeared.

Came into the kitchen.

Sat at the table.

Grabbed a biscuit.

Buttered it like it was a normal day.

I looked at him.

Looked him right in the eyes.

And he looked away.

He couldn’t face me.

He knew I knew.

Somehow he knew.

I let the girls drink their coffee.

I talked to them about normal things—about school, about the chickens, about what they were going to play that day.

Then I looked at Ruth.

“Ruth, you and the girls are going to spend the day at Auntie Eda’s house.”

Ruth looked at me surprised.

“Today, Mama? But Auntie Eda lives in Atlanta.”

“We’re going to see if Mr. Banks can take y’all part of the way, catch the bus. I’m taking you this morning.”

“You’re going to stay there a few days.”

“But Mama, why?”

“Because I need to settle some things here. Grown-up things.”

“You go stay there and have fun with your cousins.”

I looked at Otis.

He was pale.

White as a sheet.

He knew what was going to happen.

I packed a bundle with the girls’ clothes.

A few changes.

Toothbrushes.

A comb.

I put it all in a sack.

I took the three by the hand.

“Let’s go.”

“But Mama, how are we going? It’s far.”

“We’re going in the wagon. I’m going to ask Mr. Banks to take us to the Greyhound station.”

I went to Mr. Banks’s house.

He was our closest neighbor.

He had a truck.

I asked him to take the girls to the bus stop in Cordell.

He looked at me kind of suspicious, but I insisted.

I said it was urgent—that I would pay him.

He accepted.

I settled the girls—Ruth, Ruby, Pearl—the three of them sitting there looking at me.

“Behave yourselves at your auntie’s house.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Obey her. Be polite.”

“Yes, Mama.”

I hugged each one.

Squeezed them tight.

Smelled their hair.

Saved that moment.

Because I didn’t know when I was going to see them again.

The truck left.

I watched them go, waving goodbye to me.

I waved back until they disappeared down the dirt road.

I went back to the house.

Entered.

Closed the door.

Otis was sitting in the living room, looking at the floor.

I looked at him and he looked at me.

And in that moment—without me saying anything—he knew.

He knew I had heard.

That I knew everything.

And he knew nothing was ever going to be like before.

We stayed there—me standing, him sitting—the silence heavy between us like a stone.

I didn’t say anything.

Didn’t need to.

He knew.

I saw him start to tremble.

His hands trembling.

His shoulders trembling.

And then he started to cry.

Really cry.

Loud.

Without hiding.

“Haddie, please—”

“Don’t call me that.”

My voice came out hard.

Cold.

I had never spoken like that to him.

To anyone.

He lowered his head.

Kept crying.

“Did you hear?” he asked.

“You heard what I said this morning.”

It wasn’t a question.

It was a statement.

“I heard every word,” I said.

“Every word you whispered while you thought I was asleep.”

“For seven months, you came to my side every morning asking forgiveness.”

“But you never had the courage to tell me while I was awake.”

“I couldn’t,” he cried.

“You couldn’t what, Otis?”

“You couldn’t tell that you sold our daughter?”

“That you promised Ruby—a nine-year-old child—to a fifty-two-year-old man?”

He sobbed an ugly, desperate sound.

“I was desperate, Hattie. The debt—”

“I know about the debt,” I said.

“You gambled our money—the money I saved sewing, washing clothes, going hungry.”

“You took it all and gambled it on cards.”

I went to the kitchen and grabbed the knife I used to cut meat.

I went back to the living room.

When he saw the knife in my hand, he went white.

He raised his hands.

“Hattie, for the love of God—don’t—”

“I ain’t going to kill you, Otis,” I said.

“Even though you deserve it.”

“But I want you to sit right there and tell me everything from the beginning.”

“And if you lie one word to me—just one—I swear to the Lord I will finish you.”

I sat on the chair opposite him.

I put the knife on the table.

But kept my hand on it.

“Talk.”

He breathed deep.

Wiped the tears with the back of his hand.

“It was January the 15th,” he said.

“A Tuesday night. Big Joe was running a game in the back of his place. Poker.”

“I went.”

“I had gone other times.”

“Little small bets. Sometimes I won, sometimes I lost.”

“Yes,” I said.

“I knew you played once in a while, but I thought it was little stuff. A few cents.”

“That night there were folks from out of town,” he said.

“Rich men. Landowners.”

“The game was high. The stakes were big, and I…”

He stopped.

Breathed deep again.

“I thought I was going to win,” he said.

“I thought I was going to double our money, triple it.”

“I was going to buy more land, more livestock.”

“I was going to improve our life.”

“You took all our money,” I said.

“I took the three hundred we had saved,” he whispered.

“All of it. Three hundred dollars.”

“Two years of savings.”

“Two years you spent sewing late at night after the girls were asleep. After I was asleep.”

“Sewing until your fingers bled.”

“And I took it all in one night.”

He stared at the floor.

“I lost it,” he said.

“I lost everything in the first few rounds.”

“And then I got desperate.”

“I asked to borrow.”

“Mr. Thorne was there.”

“He lent me a thousand dollars.”

“You borrowed one thousand?” I said.

“Yes,” he cried.

“I thought I was going to win back what I had lost.”

“I was going to win it back.”

“But you didn’t win.”

“I didn’t win.”

“I lost the thousand, too.”

“So I asked for more.”

“A thousand more.”

“He lent it and I lost it.”

“I asked for another thousand.”

“I lost it.”

“At the end of the night, I owed Silas Thorne three thousand dollars.”

“Three thousand,” I repeated.

“A fortune.”

“Money we were never going to see.”

“He gave me a deadline of one week,” Otis said.

“One week to get three thousand.”

“If not, he was going to take the land, the house—everything.”

“You should have told me,” I said.

“I was going to tell you,” he cried.

“I swear I was.”

“But the next day—Saturday—he showed up here early in the morning.”

“You had gone to wash clothes at the creek with the girls.”

“He came on horseback.”

“Silas Thorne came here.”

“He entered here, sat in that same chair where you are, lit a cigar, and said he had a proposal for me.”

“What proposal was that?” I asked.

“He said he had been a widower for three years,” Otis said.

“That he was looking for a young girl to marry.”

“A young girl who could give him children, take care of his house.”

“And he said he had noticed Ruby.”

“That he had seen her at church. At the picnics.”

My stomach turned.

“That old man had set his eyes on my daughter,” I said.

“A child.”

“And then he made the proposal,” Otis whispered.

“He said if I promised him Ruby’s hand when she turned fifteen, he would forget the whole debt.”

“The three thousand.”

“Everything forgiven.”

“And you accepted,” I said.

“It wasn’t like that, Hattie,” he cried.

“I said no.”

“I told him she was a child—that she was my daughter.”

“But in the end,” I said, “you accepted.”

“He threatened me,” Otis sobbed.

“He said if I didn’t accept, it wasn’t just the debt.”

“He said he was going to do something to me.”

“That I was going to disappear.”

“That you and the girls were going to be left with nothing.”

“No land. No house. No husband.”

“So you preferred to sell our daughter?” I said.

“I didn’t sell her,” he cried.

“I just… promised.”

“It’s the same thing,” I said.

“You promised her hand like she was an object.”

“Like she was cattle.”

“Like you had the right to decide her life.”

I screamed.

Screamed loud.

All the rage I had stored up coming out at once.

He lowered his head.

Kept crying.

“I know,” he whispered.

“I know I did wrong.”

“That’s why I don’t sleep.”

“That’s why every day at 2:47 in the morning I wake up.”

“Because it was at that time—2:47 in the morning—from Friday to Saturday—when I said yes.”

“When I promised Ruby.”

“How was it?” I said.

“Tell me exactly how it was.”

“He gave me paper and pen,” Otis said.

“He ordered me to write.”

“I wrote: ‘I, Otis Washington, promise the hand of my daughter Ruby Washington in marriage to Mr. Silas Thorne when she turns fifteen years of age on August 8th, 1974.’”

“In six years.”

“And you signed?”

“I signed.”

“And he signed as a witness.”

“He kept the paper.”

“Said he was going to keep it until the day that when 1974 came, he was going to come fetch her.”

I got up from the chair and started pacing the living room, from one side to the other.

Trying to think.

Trying to control the rage.

“Ruby knows,” I said.

He looked at me with eyes wide open.

“How would she know?”

“I saw it in her eyes,” I said.

“She is skinny, scared, quiet. Someone told her.”

“No,” he cried.

“I didn’t tell anyone. Only me and Silas Thorne know.”

“Then he told,” I said.

“Or someone who was at Big Joe’s house that night told.”

“Small town.”

“Everybody finds out everything.”

“Someone heard, someone talked, and it got to her.”

“My God,” he whispered.

“My baby.”

I stopped pacing.

I looked at him.

“You are going to grab paper and pen right now,” I said.

“And you are going to write a statement saying you cancel that promise.”

“That it was made under threat, under duress.”

“And that it has no validity whatsoever.”

“But he has the paper, Hattie,” Otis said.

“He has my signature.”

“Doesn’t matter,” I said.

“You are going to write. Right now.”

“And I am going to take that to Silas Thorne.”

“And I’m going to tell him to his face that my daughter is not merchandise.”

“But he won’t accept,” Otis cried.

“He’s going to come here.”

“He—”

“I don’t care what he’s going to do,” I said.

“My daughter is not marrying that old man.”

I grabbed paper and pen and threw them in front of him.

“Write now.”

He grabbed the pen with a trembling hand.

He started to write.

I dictated.

“I, Otis Washington, by means of this letter cancel the promise made to Mr. Silas Thorne regarding the marriage of my daughter Ruby Washington. Said promise was made under duress and threat and therefore has no validity. I acknowledge that I committed a grave error and that my daughter has the right to choose her own future.”

He wrote—handwriting crooked, shaky.

He signed at the end.

I grabbed the paper.

Folded it.

Put it in my pocket.

“Now you stay here,” I said.

“You don’t leave this house.”

“You don’t go to the fields.”

“You don’t go anywhere.”

“You stay here waiting for me to come back.”

“Where are you going?” he asked.

“I’m going to settle this like it needs to be settled,” I said.

I grabbed my shawl.

Put it over my shoulders.

Grabbed the paper.

“Hattie, don’t go there,” he begged.

“It’s dangerous.”

“So am I,” I said.

I left the house.

Closed the door.

Started walking.

Silas Thorne’s plantation was about five miles from there.

Five miles of dirt road.

It would take more than two hours walking.

But I was going.

I would go on foot if I had to.

I walked about fifteen minutes when I heard the sound of a horse behind me.

I turned around.

It was Mr. Banks, going to town.

“Miss Hattie, where are you going on foot in this sun?”

“I’m going to Silas Thorne’s place,” I said.

He looked at me surprised.

“But that’s far, ma’am. Hop on the wagon. I’ll take you.”

I climbed up onto the wagon seat.

We continued down the road.

Silas Thorne’s place was big.

High wooden gate.

White fence.

Big two-story house with columns.

He had workers.

He had everything.

Mr. Banks dropped me at the gate.

“Are you sure, Miss Hattie?”

“Yes,” I said.

I got down.

He left.

I opened the gate.

Entered.

Walked up the gravel path to the house.

I climbed the steps of the porch.

I knocked on the door.

A servant answered—an older Black man with white hair.

“I want to speak with Mr. Thorne,” I said.

“Do you have an appointment?”

“I don’t need an appointment. Tell him it’s Hattie—Otis Washington’s wife.”

He looked me up and down.

Must have thought it strange that a simple woman—thin, in old clothes—appeared at his boss’s house.

But he went to call him.

I waited on the porch.

Heart beating hard.

Hands sweating.

There were heavy footsteps.

Silas Thorne appeared.

He was a big man.

Pot-bellied.

Thick mustache.

Gray hair.

Wearing expensive clothes.

Gold watch on his wrist.

He looked at me with surprise.

“Mrs. Washington. What an honor to receive you here. Come in, please.”

“I ain’t coming in,” I said.

“I came here to settle a quick matter.”

He smiled.

A fake smile full of teeth.

“I see. I imagine what it’s about. Your husband sent you here to confirm the arrangements we made.”

“I came to undo the arrangements you made,” I said.

The smile wiped off his face.

“How’s that?”

I took the paper out of my pocket.

Showed it to him.

“My husband wrote this,” I said.

“Canceling the promise.”

“My daughter is not merchandise.”

“She is not going to marry you.”

He grabbed the paper.

Read it.

His face started turning red with rage.

“This is worth nothing,” he said.

“I have a document signed by him, legal, with a witness.”

“That document was made under duress and threat,” I said.

“It has no validity whatsoever.”

“It does,” he said.

“And it will be fulfilled.”

“In 1974, I am coming to get the girl.”

“You are not coming,” I said.

“Because if you get near my daughter, I will finish you myself.”

He laughed.

A loud mocking laugh.

“You… you are going to do what? You are just a woman. A poor Black woman with nothing.”

I took a step forward.

Looked him right in the eyes.

“I am a mother,” I said.

“And a mother protects her children no matter what she has to do.”

He stopped laughing.

He saw I was serious.

“Your husband owes me three thousand dollars,” he said.

“He lost it playing cards.”

“That’s his problem,” I said.

“Not my daughter’s.”

“The deal was made,” he snapped.

“No deal,” I said.

“My daughter is not part of any deal.”

“And if you insist on this, I’m going everywhere.”

“To the sheriff. To the reverend. To the judge.”

“I’m going to make the biggest scandal this county has ever seen.”

“I’m going to tell the whole world that you—a fifty-two-year-old man—want to marry a nine-year-old child.”

“I’m going to spread that all over town. All over the state.”

“Let’s see if your reputation holds up.”

His face turned purple with anger.

“You have no proof of anything,” he said.

“I have my husband’s word,” I said.

“And I have the promise you made him.”

“And I have my daughter—who has been scared for months because someone told her.”

He took a step toward me, trying to intimidate me.

“I am not going to forget this debt,” he said.

“Your husband is going to pay one way or another.”

“Then collect from him,” I said.

“Not my daughter.”

I turned around.

Started down the steps.

“You’re going to regret this, Mrs. Washington,” he called.

“I won’t regret it,” I said.

“You’re the one who will regret it if you come near my family.”

I left the plantation.

Closed the gate behind me.

My legs were trembling.

My whole body was trembling.

But I had done it.

I had faced that man.

I had told him no.

I started walking back home.

Legs weak.

Hot sun beating on my head.

But I kept going.

I walked and walked until I couldn’t take it anymore.

I sat on the side of the road under a pecan tree.

And I cried.

I cried everything I had stored up.

Seven months of fear.

Of desperation.

Of not understanding.

I cried for Ruby.

For her stolen childhood.

For the fear she went through.

I cried for Otis.

For the weak, cowardly man he was.

For the marriage that was never a marriage.

For the life we had.

I cried for myself.

For the tired, skinny, scared woman I had become.

I sat there a long time until the tears dried, until I could breathe right again.

Then I got up.

Wiped my face.

And kept walking.

When I got home, it was almost night.

It was getting dark.

Otis was sitting in the same spot where I had left him.

Staring at the wall.

When he saw me enter, he stood up.

“What did he say?” he asked.

“He said he’s not going to leave it like this,” I said.

“That you are going to pay the debt one way or another.”

“He’s going to come for me.”

“I don’t know.”

“I don’t care.”

I went to the bedroom.

Grabbed an old sack.

Started putting my clothes in.

The rest of the girls’ clothes.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“I’m leaving,” I said.

“I’m going to get the girls.”

“And I’m going to Atlanta.”

“I’m going to stay with my sister until I find a way to support myself.”

“No, Hattie, don’t do that,” he begged.

“Do you think I’m going to stay here living with you after what you did?” I said.

“I’m going to find a way to pay the debt,” he cried.

“I swear—”

“I don’t want to know about the debt,” I said.

“I want to know about protecting my daughters.”

“And with you near, they ain’t protected.”

I finished packing the sack.

I grabbed the money I had hidden under the mattress.

About twenty dollars I had saved without him knowing.

It was little.

But it was what I had.

“You can’t leave,” he said.

“You are my wife.”

“Not anymore,” I said.

I left the room.

Grabbed the sack.

Went toward the door.

He followed me.

“Hattie, please forgive me. Give me a chance.”

I turned to him.

“You had seven months of chances,” I said.

“Seven months to tell me the truth.”

“To do the right thing.”

“And you didn’t do it.”

I opened the door.

“I’m going to get my daughters,” I said.

“And I am never coming back.”

And I left.

I left home that night of Monday, August 12th, 1968, with a sack of clothes on my back and twenty dollars in my pocket.

It was all I had in the world.

That—and my three daughters.

I walked down the dark road to Mr. Banks’s house again.

I knocked on the door.

He answered in his pajamas, rubbing his eyes.

“Mr. Banks, I need to go get my daughters. I need to get to the bus station. Now.”

He looked at me.

Saw the sack on my back.

Saw my face.

And he didn’t ask anything.

“I’ll start the truck,” he said.

We drove through the night.

The road dark.

Only the headlights shining.

Me sitting in the truck, clutching my sack, looking forward without looking back.

We got to the station.

And I took a bus to Atlanta.

I arrived when the sun was coming up—Tuesday, August 13th.

My sister Eda was surprised when she saw me at her door at that hour.

“Hattie, what happened?”

“I need to stay here a few days,” I said.

“Me and the girls.”

“I have to go pick them up from the bus depot.”

She looked at the sack on my back.

And she understood.

“Come in,” she said.

I went to get the girls.

When we got back to Eda’s, the house was small but tidy.

Two bedrooms.

Living room.

Kitchen.

She lived with her husband, Robert, and their two children, John and Mary, who were about the age of my girls.

I sat in the kitchen.

Eda made coffee.

Gave me a biscuit.

“Tell me,” she said.

And I told.

I told everything from the beginning.

The 2:47 in the morning.

The seven months.

The night I pretended to sleep.

What Otis had done.

The promise.

Silas Thorne.

Everything.

My sister turned white.

Then red with anger.

“That scoundrel,” she said.

“That son of a—”

I finished telling.

Drank the coffee.

Breathed deep.

“I’m not going back, Eda,” I said.

“I ain’t going back to him.”

“I’m going to stay here until I find a way to support myself and the girls.”

She grabbed my hand.

“You stay as long as you need,” she said.

The girls were there in the kitchen.

When they saw me crying, Ruby ran and hugged me.

She hugged me so tight she almost knocked me over.

“Mama,” she said.

Just that.

Just “Mama.”

But by how she said it, I knew.

I knew she understood that she knew I had gone there to protect her.

Ruth and Pearl also hugged me.

All three clinging to me.

I hugged my girls and cried.

I cried from relief.

From exhaustion.

From fear.

From everything.

We stayed at Eda’s house.

Days turned into weeks.

Weeks turned into months.

I slept in the living room on a mattress on the floor.

And the girls—

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