My father ordered Josiah away, then sank into his chair, aging ten years in minutes.
“I wanted you protected,” he said. “Not… this.”
“Then you should not have given me to someone kind and gentle.”
He stared at the wall.
“I could sell him,” he murmured.
My blood froze.
“Father—”
“But I won’t.”
Hope flickered.
“I’ve watched you,” he said. “You are happier than I’ve seen you since you were a child. I don’t understand this love… but I cannot destroy it.”
He needed time.
He needed a plan.
It would take two months.
And then he shocked us both.
FREEDOM
February 1857.
My father called us into his study.
“There is no future for this relationship in Virginia,” he began. “So I’m offering you another.”
He turned to Josiah.
“I am freeing you.”
Josiah stopped breathing.
“And,” my father continued, “I will provide $50,000 and abolitionist connections in Philadelphia so you may build a life there. Together.”
I burst into tears.
Josiah did too.
“I will arrange a legal marriage before you leave,” my father said. “The world may shun you, but you will face it together.”
We married in a small Richmond church.
Josiah Freeman.
Ellanar Whitmore Freeman.
We left Virginia on March 15th, 1857 — the same date I would one day die — carrying two trunks and a lifetime of hope.
PHILADELPHIA
Philadelphia embraced us.