Grieving bride in wedding dress visits fiance's grave the day they were supposed to get married

A heartbroken bride was captured wearing her wedding dress to go and visit the grave of her fiance on the day they were supposed to tie the knot. The pictures show Jessica Padgett kneeling in front of the headstone of Kendall James Murphy on September 29. Murphy had been a firefighter in Montgomery, Indiana.

He was killed in a tragic incident in November last year when his colleague, Colby Blake, crashed his vehicle into three cars as they were responding to an emergency call. Blake, who is from Cannelburg, had not been injured in the incident but was alleged to have had a blood alcohol level of .21%, which is more than double the legal limit of just .08. In honor of her fallen fiance, Jessica posed for a series of images with his boots, his tombstone, his firefighting gear, and with their loved ones.

The breathtaking images were taken by Loving Life Photography and have since been shared on Facebook. The photos have all been shared now more than 21,000 times by users online. In one gut-wrenching image, Jessica can be seen holding her fallen fiance's boots with an image of him photoshopped in the image to stand right next to her.

(Source: Loving Life Photography/Facebook)

The photographer wrote in the caption of the image: "She made broken look beautiful and strong look invincible. She walked with the Universe on her shoulders and made it look like a pair of wings." The maid of honor and the best man both took turns giving speeches before both families were captured lighting paper sky lanterns above his gravesite.

Murphy, Blake, and one more firefighter had been responding to a crash site along with deputies from the Daviess County Sheriff's Department on the tragic night that Murphy was killed. The fire department got a call about a driver in the crash site who was stuck inside his vehicle and had to be rescued.

(Source: Loving Life Photography/Facebook)

While the firefighters were responding to the scene of the crash, Black crashed into the back of another truck with his own and kept going striking another vehicle in the process. Murphy was already at the scene after having gotten there in his personal vehicle. He had exited his car and opened the rear passenger door on the left to try and take out his protective clothing when he was hit by Blake's truck. The 27-year-old groom-to-be died at the scene.

Blake was subsequently arrested and charged with causing death when operating a motor vehicle with a blood-alcohol content of .15 or more. The case has still not been set for a trial.

The National Fallen Firefighters Association said that Murphy had been a "selfless man of God who loved spending time with family and friends". They also added: "He had a true servant’s heart and captivating personality that would light up any room. His wittiness would make anyone laugh and have him making friends in no time. He didn’t know a stranger."

The families of Murphy and Jessica both attended the National Firefighters Memorial in Emmitsburg, Maryland, so that they could honor their fallen firefighter on October 7. In a post on Facebook, Jessica wrote: "What an emotional, amazing weekend this was! This foundation not only honored my Kendall but also took us in as a family. This wasn’t what we wanted in the end, but at least we know we will never be alone, we have all become one big supporting family [sic]. You will forever be in our hearts #616."

Murphy is reported to have been with the Montgomery Volunteer Fire Department since June 2016. It is said that he had been "following his father and grandfather's footsteps" when he joined the department.

Director Eli Roth and wife divorcing so 'we don't f--king kill each other'

“Hostel” director Eli Roth and his actress wife aren’t going to wait for death to do them part.

Roth and Lorenza Izzo — who has appeared in the horror films “Aftershock” and “The Green Inferno” — revealed their separation Monday in an honest, if not quite romantic, announcement.

“It is with deep love and respect that we are choosing to separate as a couple. We’ve had an incredible journey together, we love each other very much, and will remain the best of friends. We are grateful for the six wonderful years together but have decided to go our separate ways to have the most fulfilled, joyous lives we can,” the two wrote in a joint statement on Instagram.

“We wish to continue working together creatively and are ultimately separating so we don’t f--king kill each other.”

The 46-year-old Roth and Izzo, 28, have worked together on projects including “The Green Inferno,” “Knock Knock” and “Aftershock,” as well as the upcoming “The House with a Clock in Its Walls.”

They were married in 2014 and have no children.

Young Nigerian Man From Ekiti State Marries His Older British Lover In Ekiti State For Visa (Photos)

A young-looking yoruba woman, Mrs Bola Fasaki's son by name Pablo Classic Fasaki is just got married to an older British woman, Maribel. It is rumored, he married her because of visa to the UK.

The couple got married last November in Ado-Ekiti, Ekiti State. More photos below:

The couples: Pablo Classic Fasaki is the bride with Mirabel his wife

The couples: Pablo Classic Fasaki is the bride with Mirabel his wife cutting the cake

The couples: Pablo Classic Fasaki is the bride with Mirabel his wife enjoying their honeymoon

Mrs Bola Fasaki is Pablo's Mom

Mrs Bola Fasaki and His Son Pablo

Mrs Bola Fasaki and Pablo's wife Mirable

Mrs Bola Fasaki, mom to Pablo Fasaki

I WISH YOU GUYS HAPpY Married life

Evan Bass and Carly Waddell of ‘Bachelor in Paradise’ Are Married!

Bachelor in Paradise stars Evan Bass and Carly Waddell married in a romantic wedding celebration in Mexico on Saturday, June 17, according to multiple reports.

The couple, who met and fell in love on the ABC dating show and got engaged on the season 3 finale last summer, tied the knot in front of family and friends in a ceremony that is set to air on ABC later this year.

Their nuptials were originally meant to air during the new season of Bachelor in Paradise, but those plans were changed when production on the show was shut down last week after allegations of sexual misconduct between contestants Corinne Olympios and DeMario Jackson.






Bass wrote in an op-ed for The Hollywood Reporter on Saturday, June 17, that the controversy broke his heart, and begged ABC not to cancel the dating series.

The single dad of three sons, who lives in Nashville with Waddell, wrote that the show didn’t just guide him “to an incredible stepmother” for his children, it brought him “personal redemption.”

But the road to the altar wasn’t smooth for Bass and Waddell, who initially dumped the erectile dysfunction specialist before falling for his quirky charms.

“Carly and I sat on a beach for weeks talking,” Bass wrote on Saturday of how they got to know one another while filming the Bachelor spin-off. “At first I creeped her out, but because of the time allowed to just hang after she friend-zoned me, she came to realize that she not only liked my flavor of creepiness, but wanted to marry it as well!”

Bachelor executive producer and creator Mike Fleiss tweeted his congratulations to the newlyweds on Saturday, writing, “So happy for Carly and Evan!!!” Jade Roper and Tanner Tolbert were among the Bachelor in Paradisestars reportedly in attendance at the wedding and Bachelorette alum Robby Hayes also tweeted his best wishes to the couple.

I Dated The Worst Guy Ever And Here Is What I learnt

"Attempting to drink myself into coma at an airport hotel. The head didn't show."

My friend Hannah* was texting me from Australia, where she'd flown (22 hours!) to reunite with her long-distance boyfriend. It was 3:00 A.M. in Sydney. This wasn't good.

"Put down the Shiraz and sleep!" I texted back. "The &%$!-head isn't worth it. Tmrw new beginning!"












Hannah, 27, was a bit of a wounded soul who had a tendency to attract players. She had confided enough worrisome details about the Australian banker that I'd long suspected heartbreak was coming: He had "complicated feelings" for his runway-model ex and often referred to Hannah as his Friend With Benefits. Worst of all, she admitted, he made her cry "sometimes...OK, a lot." But there was something about him—an action-hero, try-anything-twice dauntlessness—that she couldn't resist. Hey, I was no fan of the guy, but even I could see it.

Hannah woke up the next afternoon with a hangover—and a determination to have an Australian adventure all by herself. "As much as I hated him," she told me recently, "I can see now that if it weren't for all the crazy stuff he challenged me to do, like skydiving and traveling to places with no plumbing, I would've gone right back to work, crushed. I still cried for three weeks, but I did it while driving solo around New South Wales with the windows down. I have to thank him for that."

It's true. The Hannah I know today is confident and adventurous, not the delicate flower she was before what we now call "the Aussie affair." And she's with a guy who shows up for her—not just at the airport but emotionally too.

A disastrous relationship, whether it flamed out years ago or is still in progress, can hold invaluable lessons. Here, five women share what they learned from the worst guy ever:

I LEARNED THAT... A good partner wants you to succeed."I had always dreamed of being a comedian, and I was flattered when Paul, the manager of a comedy club where I was interning, asked to hear my material. Pretty soon we were writing jokes together, then dating. But the more I succeeded, the more he criticized me—and the more he flirted with other girls. I even wondered, If I focus less on my career, more on Paul, would things be right again? One morning I called my mother and sobbed about how bad my relationship was. She said, 'Natalie, you said you weren't happy. That's all you need to know.' I broke up with him that day. As terrible a boyfriend as he was, Paul taught me that any guy who cuts me down for dreaming big is not the one for me." —Natalie, 26

I LEARNED THAT... How a man treats his mom matters."I dated a lawyer who had a temperamental relationship with his mother. He told me that when he got accepted to law school, she gave him a treasured copy of Black's Law Dictionary, handed down to her from her father, who got it from his father. But then, after he and his mom had a huge argument, he tore up the pages in front of her. He told me this like he was proud of it, like he had stood up to her. I wrote it off as family dramatics, but the more we dated, the more he revealed his irrational, tantrum-y side to me. One evening, as we were making dinner, I made a little suggestion and he threw a bag of cranberries on the floor—splattering red everywhere—then walked out and left me to clean up the mess. I finally realized that how a guy treats his family is a pretty good indication of how he'll treat you." —Anna, 31




I LEARNED THAT... We seek the love we think we deserve.
"I met Bob when I was 22, and fell hard. He was a macho, messed-up guy: He ate raw eggs. He shot himself in the thigh with steroids. He drank Bud Light while lifting weights and wore his hat backward. But when two broken people get together, it's not a resurrection of Jerry Maguire—no one completes anyone. You both just tear each other apart in new and awful ways. He slept with a coworker. I accepted his marriage proposal and then rejected it. One night while we were driving, I finally called us quits. Bob pulled over, took out a gun from under his seat, and said if I broke up with him, he would kill himself. Long story short, I called 911, the cops came, and Bob is still alive; our relationship, thankfully, is not. If I could offer my 22-year-old self some advice, I'd tell her: (1) Go for nice, not passion. Drama works only in the movies. Nice lasts. (2) Threats and intimidation should never be part of a relationship. Really, it's violence. (3) Do not date anyone who eats raw eggs, shoots himself in the thigh with steroids, or drinks Bud Light while lifting weights." —Lizzie, 35


I LEARNED THAT... A man will always tell you who he is. All you have to do is listen.
"On our first date I asked Alan, 'What would your exes say about you?' He twisted his face and said, 'That I'm mean.' I should have ditched him then and there. But my thinking was, I'm different—this sexy, chivalrous guy wouldn't be mean to me. Then, several months into our relationship, I got a scarily heavy period and rushed to the ER to find out that I was having a miscarriage. When I called Alan, he didn't pick up, didn't return my panicked voice mails, and I went through a terrible night in the ER without a shoulder to cry on. Five days later he showed up with a dozen roses and a string of dog-ate-my-homework excuses: His phone died. He overslept...I threw the roses in the trash and told him to leave and never come back. The truth is that Alan told me who he was on day one; I was just too wrapped up in my fantasy of who he was to listen." —Jennifer, 34

I LEARNED THAT... Your love life shouldn't be a project.
"My first boyfriend out of college was going through a divorce and working long hours as a corrections officer. Every night after his shift ended, I would listen to him vent about work; in return he gave me... nothing. He never asked me about my day or how I was feeling. I told myself that he wasn't a bad person, just a bad boyfriend; I was sure he'd change if I stuck around long enough. Then one day at 6:00 A.M., he called me, crying, because he'd gotten a DUI. When I picked him up, I realized how pathetic I was. I had a master's degree and was dating a balding man-child who drove drunk and didn't make time for me. I broke up with him that week. I'm happy to say that I'm now with a guy who looks out for me as much as I do for him. He isn't a project; he's a partner." —Kate, 25


AND NOW FOR THE GOOD GUYS
Real women say, "I knew he was a keeper when..."

"...I was homesick and he showed up at my apartment with a framed picture of my hometown, Detroit." —Chelsea Appleby, 28

"...he drove an hour from his house to pick me up at 6:00 A.M. after my night shift as a nurse, just so I wouldn't have to take the train home." —Jill Jankovich, 33

"...he called my mom to wish her a happy Mother's Day. It was the first year we were together. She'd just texted him, so it was totally natural, but I hadn't even called her yet!" —Abbie McCoy, 26

"...he teared up at his gran's birthday. He sees his mum and gran as strong and accomplished; I feel so fortunate that he thinks I'm worthy of that esteem too." —Kelly Pirie, 31

How I was Took Overseas By My Mom and Forced into Marriage As A Teen

I was 6 years old when my two older sisters went to Palestine to "visit family." At least that's what my mom told me.

I was born in Chicago, like my sisters, but our parents are Palestinian, born in Jerusalem. I was four-months-old when our father died—he worked at a gas station and was shot during a robbery. After that, the four of us moved into the basement apartment of my mom's mother's house, where my sisters and I shared a room.






I worshipped my oldest sister growing up. She was rebellious and loved pop music and makeup, which my grandmother and mother couldn't stand. We were raised Muslim, and while my mom didn't make us wear hijabs—headscarves—to school, we did when we went to mosque on the high holidays. Every other day, we wore long-sleeve shirts and pants or knee-length skirts.

I don't have too many memories of my sisters, but I do remember how much my oldest sister loved Usher. She was 13 and she'd sing along to his music on the radio in our room. She bought a poster of him, shirtless, and pinned it to the wall next to our bed.

He didn't last long. My grandmother saw the poster one day and ripped it off the wall. She was screaming at my sister, and my sister yelled right back—she was feisty! But it didn't matter; Usher was gone. And a year later, so were my sisters.

Me, before my sisters left

My mom said they were "going on a trip" to Palestine, but even as a 6-year-old, I'd heard rumors about a diary entry. Something about my sister kissing a boy behind a tree, or writing that she wanted to. I remember large suitcases and both of my sisters weeping as we said goodbye. I cried too, but I was more mad at them for leaving me. Who would I listen to the radio with late at night?


Still, I assumed they were coming back. So when my mother told me that they wanted to stay in Palestine, I got really upset. I missed them so much.

The only time I got to see my friends was at school.

In 8th grade, our class took a field trip to tour the high school. No one wore uniforms, like we did in middle school! I could even wear my skinny jeans there. Yep, as strict as my mom was, she did buy me skinny jeans that were super popular then. I remember being in the store and pointing them out and being stunned when she nodded yes, then paid for three pairs at the register. They were the only things I owned that made me feel like a normal kid.

Another photo of me when I was little

But right before middle school graduation, I came home from school one afternoon to find my mother and grandmother rummaging through my closet.

"What are you doing?" I asked.

My mother was holding a garbage bag and my grandmother had scissors. They were cutting my skinny jeans into pieces and throwing them away.

I was so confused—she'd bought them for me! When I asked my mom why, she said, "They're inappropriate and revealing. You're too old to dress like this now!"

I was furious. All I had left were one pair of baggy jeans, which I hated. For the first time in middle school, I was relieved to have a uniform.


As soon as I graduated 8th grade, I started pestering my mom about enrolling me in high school. Every time I asked if she'd done it, she'd say, "Not yet." In July, she said, "I'm signing you up for an all girls' school." But there was a wait list, so then it was going to be online school. I even did my own research and had pamphlets sent to the house, but nothing happened.

By September, all of my friends had started school but me. I woke up every day at 10am and watched TV, cleaned the house, and helped make dinner. I was beyond bored. Meanwhile my mom loved having me around. She didn't work, and always said that it was important for me to learn how to be a good housewife. I cringed every time she said that—that was the last thing I wanted to be.

In fact, I really wanted a job, even if it was just working at my step-dad's gas station. Anything to get out of the house. I even asked my step-dad if I could get a workers' permit, which you can get at 15 in Chicago, and he said, "Sure!" But just like with high school, nothing ever happened. It was another empty promise.

My laptop was my refuge.

Facebook was the only way for me to stay in touch with my friends. I made up a random name that my parents could never guess and chatted with friends throughout the day. If my mom walked into the room, I'd switch the screen to a video game. She had no idea. Earlier that year, when I told friends why I wasn't in school, more than one told me, "That's illegal!" I kind of knew I had the legal right to be in school, but wasn't sure who to tell. My parents didn't care—it's what they wanted!

My 8th grade graduation photo

A year passed, and the following summer, I was chatting on Facebook with a guy I knew from middle school.

When he wrote, "Want to go to Chipotle this Friday?" my heart skipped a beat.

I was super excited and typed back, "Sure."

I told my parents that I was going to see my 24-year-old cousin. She was the only person I was ever allowed to visit. She's also incredibly cool and promised to cover for me. I met her at her house, and then she dropped me off at the mall and told me to have a great time.


I did! He was cute, and super nice. I told him that my parents were strict and didn't even know where I was. He was like, "No worries!"

It was the most fun I'd had in over a year. At the end of our date, I told him that I'd be in touch over Facebook, and floated home.

The next night, I was in the living room watching TV when the doorbell rang. My mom answered, and I heard his voice ask, "Is Yasmine home?"

I froze.

My mother started screaming, "Who are you and why are you at this house?"

He said, "I'm Yasmine's boyfriend."

I could see him standing in front of my mom, her back to me, and was trying to wave to him, like, "Go away! This is a terrible idea!"

She threatened to call the police, slammed the door, and then screamed at me: "Go to your room. You're grounded!"

The next day, my mom went grocery shopping without me and locked the glass storm door from the outside, which meant I was trapped. For the next two weeks, I was literally kept under lock and key when she left.

And then one day, my mother said, "Pack your bags. We're going to Palestine to visit your sisters."

I'd only been there once when I was 10; I don't even remember seeing my sisters then—all I remember is that it was dusty and dry. No green at all. I hated it. Plus, I speak only very basic Arabic, which is what they speak there.

I was dreading the trip. Saying goodbye to my little sister was painful—she was 8 by then. She was the only other person who knew, besides my cousin, about my date. I fought back tears and promised I'd be back soon.

My mom said we'd be gone for a month, but I didn't trust her. On the way to the airport, I asked to see my return ticket. I wanted proof that it existed. She was indignant as she showed me the ticket, but it made me feel better.

My mother and grandmother and I landed in Tel Aviv, which was as hot and dusty as I remembered. I felt claustrophobic in the cab, which we took to Ramallah, the Palestinian capital. My grandmother has a house there, and both of my sisters lived nearby.

I was so angry about being there that I wasn't even excited to see my sisters. I couldn't believe that they'd left me all those years before. Now, they were both married with kids. But by the end of that first evening, I relaxed with them. I even told them what happened with my Chipotle date, and they started teasing me, like, "You're such an idiot! With a white guy? Really?"

They thought that if he'd been Muslim, I wouldn't have gotten into so much trouble. I wasn't so sure, but it still felt good to laugh with them about it.

About two weeks into our stay, my sisters sat me down and started doing my hair and makeup. I was never allowed to wear makeup at home, so I thought it was cool. When I asked why, they said they wanted me to meet a friend of theirs.

Their friend was in his twenties but still lived with his mom, which my sister called "a problem." I didn't understand what she meant by that.

He arrived with his mom and uncle and started speaking to me in Arabic. I barely understood anything except for his asking me how old I was.

I said, "I'm 15. I just finished 8th grade."

He looked perplexed. So was I.

After he left, I asked my sisters what the meeting was about. They explained that the way to meet suitors is through families. When a family thinks a girl is ready to be married—usually she's part of that decision—they pass word along to other families that they're looking for a husband. The couple then meets through the parents, and if it is a good match, an arrangement is made.

A week passed, and once again my sisters sat me down and started putting makeup on me. They said that another guy was coming to meet me. When I asked, "Who?"

They said, "Don't worry about it. Just have fun."

The doorbell rang and in walked a guy with his parents. I'm 5'8" and he was 5'4", nine years older, and missing half of his front left tooth. Everyone seemed very eager. I was repulsed.

I sat stone-faced the entire time they were there. As soon as he and his family left, my mom and grandmother said that they thought I should marry him. They said, "He has a job and a house." That's all it took.

I was furious. By then, I realized that they'd brought me to Palestine to get married and planned to leave me there. Instead of berating them, I immediately started thinking of ways to return home on my own. I had watched SVU. I knew this was totally illegal. I just needed to figure out a way to reach a detective in Illinois who could help me escape.

I also knew then that I couldn't trust my sisters—anytime I complained to them, they'd just say, "It's not so bad! You'll learn to love him!"

He and I met two more times that week and each time, I hoped he'd figure out that I was being coerced. But then, during that third visit, all the men went into one room while the women stayed in another.

My sister, mother, and grandmother were chatting with his mother and sisters when I heard the men read the engagement passage from the Koran, which announces a marriage.

Startled, I said to my sisters, "What are they doing?"

My oldest sister said, "They're reading the passage."

I shouted, "No!" and fought back tears.

My worst nightmare was becoming a terrifying reality. I ran into the bathroom, curled into a ball, and dissolved into tears. How could my family do this to me? I thought about running away, but how? My mother had my passport. I had no money. I was stuck. I started thinking about different ways to die. Anything was better than this.

After his family left, I could no longer contain my rage at my mother. "How could you do this to me? I am your daughter!" I shouted. Tears were streaming down my face. I could see my mom was upset, too—she was crying, shaking her head. I think she felt bad about it, but she also felt like it was the best option. I felt so betrayed.

And just then, my grandmother marched into the room and slapped me. "Don't disrespect your mother!" she said, before turning to my mother and saying, "See? She needs this. How else will she learn to be respectful?'

That's when I learned that my grandmother had set the whole thing up. She'd met this man's family at a mall the same week I met him! His parents owned a restaurant and spotted us shopping. They approached her to see if I was an eligible bride for their son. She told them yes, but that I had to be married before she flew back to the States. He had no other prospects, so they were excited I was one.

I never liked my grandmother, but I didn't hate her until that moment.

The wedding was planned for September 30th, a week and a half away. I was still desperately trying to figure a way out of it. I told my mom, "I'll find a way to leave." She replied, "Either you marry him or someone way older who won't be as nice."

My sisters said the same. "You're lucky." As much as I dreaded what was happening, they made the alternative sound even worse.

A few days before the wedding, my oldest sister finally revealed that she was also married against her will. "I was kicking and screaming the whole way," she told me. "But I learned to love him. You will too."

I don't remember the ceremony—everything is such a blur—but I do remember pulling away when he tried to kiss my cheek and my mother hissing, "Kiss his cheek!" I refused.

My wedding day

At the end of the wedding party, both of my sisters were so excited about my first night with him. They even said, "Text us afterwards!"

I hated them.

The first night was awful. The only thing I'm thankful for is that my husband was not a violent or aggressive man. It could have been so much worse. I get terrible migraine headaches brought on by stress, and I used them to my advantage in the weeks that followed.

He took that first week off of work and we spent most of it with his family. I did the best I could to tolerate being around him and his family while I tried to figure a way out of this mess. To do that, I needed to get on the internet.

When he went back to his job as a mechanic, he'd be gone by 9am. I'd get up, have breakfast and go to his mom's house to help her clean and make dinner. She had a computer, so one day, I asked if I could use it to talk to my mother and she agreed. Instead, I logged onto Facebook and messaged a friend from 3rd grade and told her where I was and what had happened.

She wrote back immediately, "That's illegal!"

Once again, I knew that, but I didn't know what to do.

I had another friend I met through Facebook who lived in Texas. He was Muslim. I told him what happened, and he wrote, 'You need to call the embassy!' He even sent the number.

My heart was pounding as I wrote it in a piece of paper and shoved it into my pocket.

On October 14th, I was in our apartment in the afternoon when I finally worked up the nerve to call. I used the Nokia flip phone my husband gave me to talk to him and my sisters.

An American-sounding man answered the phone and I blurted, "I'm a U.S. citizen. My parents brought me here against my will to marry a man. I want to go home."

After a moment of silence, he said, "Wow, this is a first. Hold for a moment." He connected me to a man named Mohammed, who asked me for my parents' names and address in the states.

I gave him all the proof I could think of that I was a US citizen. I didn't know my social security number and didn't have my passport. He said that was okay, but he needed proof that I was actually married. He asked for the marriage certificate. I had no idea where it was. Then he asked me for my husband's last name, and I realized, I had no idea what that was either.


Mohammed told me he'd be in touch once he verified all my information. He called me several times over the next two months. During that time, I learned my husband's last name, which was legally mine as well.

As I waited for news, I got lots of migraines.

On December 3rd, Mohammed called with the number for a taxi service and the address of a hotel. He told me to be there the next morning at 11am.

The next morning, I waited for my husband to leave and shoved all of my belongings—including the traditional wedding gold my husband's family gave me—into my suitcase and called the number. That's when I realized that I didn't even know my address. I told the driver the name of the closest big store and then stayed on the phone with him, telling him when to turn right or left. He still couldn't find me, so I ran down to the main street to flag him down praying no one would see me.

Back in the States! My high school senior photo

I held my breath for the entire 30-minute ride to the hotel. There, in the parking lot, I spotted a blond woman sitting with a guy in a black van.

"Are you with the US embassy?" I asked.

They said yes, and then she patted me down, explaining it was for security purposes, to make sure I was not strapped with any bombs.

I said, "Do whatever you need to do!" I didn't care—I was so close to freedom.

When they put me in the back seat, I pulled off my headscarf and fought back happy tears: There, with these two strangers, I felt safe for the first time in forever.

We went to the US Embassy in Jerusalem where I spent the day filling out paperwork in order to enter into the foster care system back in the States. I had no idea what that meant other than from this one cartoon show called Foster Home for Imaginary Friends, but agreeing to enter foster care wasn't hard—at least it was a new start.

That night, a diplomat accompanied me to the airport with two bodyguards, and I was placed on a plane to Philadelphia.

On my next flight, I flew from Philadelphia to Chicago O'Hare and sat next to a 20-something guy on his way to his friend's bachelor party who asked me how old I was.

I said, "15."

He said, "You're too young to be on a plane by yourself!"

If he only knew.

At O'Hare, I had twenty minutes to kill before I was supposed to meet two state officials in the food court, so I went to a computer terminal and logged onto Facebook. I had two accounts at the time: one for friends and one for family. I wanted to see what my family was saying.

A three-page letter from my second oldest sister was the first thing I read. She said she never wanted to see me again, that she hated me, and that if anyone asked her how many sisters she had, she'd say two instead of three. I was devastated.

Then I read a group chat between my two sisters, my mom, and my mom's sister.

It started, "Yasmine ran away." "What? Where?" And then someone wrote, "She's ruining our reputation!" Not one of them wondered if I was okay.

My aunt asked if I had taken my gold. When my sister said yes, my aunt replied, "She could have gotten kidnapped or robbed!"

That was the only mention of concern for my wellbeing.

As painful as it was to read those words, it made me realize that I had made the right choice.

The people I then met in the airport food court introduced me to a woman from Illinois' Child Protective Services, who took me under her wing. It was 11am, 24 hours after I ran for my life into the streets of Ramallah to escape my forced marriage.

Celebrating two years with my new family

I first moved in with a woman who fostered several kids, and stayed there for six months. It wasn't ideal—she was very religious and made us go to her Baptist church with her on Saturday and Sunday. But it was still better than what I'd left. This was confirmed when I had to face my mother in court to establish that I should remain a ward of the state, which is what they call kids whose parents aren't fit to take care of them.


The first court date was two weeks after I arrived. When I saw my mom, I froze. She was sitting in the waiting room and refused to acknowledge me. She didn't make eye contact; it was as if I didn't exist. I felt an awful mix of hurt and rage.

A few months later, I had to testify in a courtroom. My mom was there with her lawyer. He showed photos from my wedding and said, "You look happy! And your mom said that you wanted to be married."

I had to explain to a room full of strangers that I was faking that smile to survive and that my mom knew the entire time that I didn't want to marry that man. On the stand, I said, "My mom is lying." That was so painful to have to say—I wept in front of everyone. All the feelings I'd kept inside just poured out.

After that hearing, I officially became a ward of the state of Illinois.

By then, I'd already started ninth grade. I didn't like my foster mom much. I stopped going to church on the weekends, but she wouldn't let me or my foster brother stay in the house alone so we were locked out until she got home every weekend and weekdays too. It was hard in the Chicago winter, but the agency didn't think I was in immediate danger, so I stayed put. Teens are hard to place.

By January 2014, at 16-years-old, I'd been in and out of three foster homes. My strategy was just to survive foster care until I was 18, when I would finally be on my own. So when a couple called Carrie and Marvin came to meet me one weekend, I didn't hold out any hope.

Carrie and Marvin had two biological teenagers, both with developmental delays. They understood kids and were super warm, but it still took me a while to open up. I really wanted to make it to 18 living with them, but I never dreamed what actually happened next.

Adoption Day! All of us Koenigs

When I hit my one-year anniversary with them, they asked me if I wanted to be adopted. I was shocked! I figured I'd leave at 18 and just be on my own—I never thought there was an alternative. But they told me that they wanted me around forever. I cannot tell you how good that felt — to be wanted, by an actual family. I said yes.

No more waking up at 6am to someone saying, "Pack your bags—you're out!" For the first time in my life, I could put things up in my room and it was okay. It was the first time since being in that van with the people from the embassy that I felt safe.

I saw my mother one last time in court, at the final termination of parental rights. Carrie had asked her for childhood photos of me, and amazingly, my mom handed them to me there.

It was a cold exchange. She was expressionless. At first, I was insulted. It all seemed so easy, her giving me up. But it was really nice to get the photos. She didn't have to do that.

Now Carrie has them around the house. It makes me feel like I'm really part of her family, like I'm her kid.

High school graduation!

I finally reconnected on Facebook with my sister a few months ago, the one who'd said she hated me. She admitted that she wished she'd had the nerve to do what I had done. Now I understand why she was so upset: I got away. She didn't.

I just graduated from high school—the first in my biological family to do so! In September, I'm going to Illinois State University and just learned that I won a full scholarship, which means my tuition will be waived for the next five years. I plan to study mass communications, and may want to do something with computers, considering they are literally what saved me.

Regardless of what I end up doing for a living, the thing that makes me the most excited is that I get to choose—what I want to wear, who I want to date, or even marry, and ultimately, who I want to be.

Yasmine Koenig initially shared her story with Children's Rights for inclusion in their annual Fostering the Future campaign. Read more about Yasmine and others who have experienced foster care.


From: Seventeen

Why It’s Completely OK If You Do Not Wear A Wedding Ring

‘I don’t need a visual aid to let everyone know I’m married.’

When my friend Himali Singh-Soin got married last year, there were no rings exchanged at the ceremony. “We exchanged pineapples because we had to exchange something,” said Singh-Soin, who’s an artist and writer living in London. “Pineapples are fractals. Each part is a part of a whole.”

That symbolism was important for Singh-Soin and her partner, who chose to get married on New Year’s Eve so that it would feel like a celebration for all their friends and family, not just for the two of them. “We felt that rings might somehow exclude the community that we are part of and is part of us,” she said. Eliminating wedding rings was a way for the couple to uphold values of inclusivity and universality.

Singh-Soin also asked wedding guests to put away their phones, so that “nothing was on public display.”

The tradition of brides wearing wedding rings is thought to date back 4,800 years to ancient Egypt. The tradition of grooms wearing them is much more recent, having only become popular during World War II, when men on the frontlines of faraway battles wanted a reminder of their wives back home.

But it’s 2016, and the old-fashioned patriarchal convention appears to be dying out. More and more celebrities — from Jay Z and Vanity Fair’s Graydon Carter to Prince William and Donald Trump — are foregoing the gold band.

Normal people, too, seem to be sick of the symbolism of the whole thing. I talked to a dozen married people in different parts of the world who don’t wear wedding bands; many of them think rings are a pointless societal construct. A number of them pointed out how ridiculous it was to think such a material thing could possibly signify deep-rooted values like fidelity and commitment, which, they said, can only come from within.

“I don’t need a visual aid to let everyone know I’m married and have chosen not to have sex with other people,” said Jessica Reker, a radiation therapist in Connecticut. “My personal integrity does that.”

Others said a ring made a public statement about them that they’d rather not make. “The point of a ring, in my opinion, is to show people that you’re married, how much money you have or how much your husband loves you,” said Samantha, a research manager in Massachusetts. “I like to keep my personal life to myself.”

Personally, I’ve always liked wearing a wedding ring: Aside from being a union with the person I love most in the world, I consider my marriage to be a kind of accomplishment. I know that sounds kind of douchey, but let me explain: For a period of my life, I was kind of a fuckup. I was smoking weed every day and was very self-involved. I had a series of relationships I destroyed through sheer selfishness. When I fell in love with my partner, Adele, I tried really hard not to screw things up, and I succeeded. So I’m proud of our marriage, and my ring is a way of showing the world that my life is no longer such a mess.

A friend of mine who’s a jewelry maker made my ring as a wedding present. So that shiny gold thing on my left hand has the added sentimental value of being a gift from a loved one.

But I completely understand people who don’t want to wear a ring. There’s something inherently possessive about sporting one, as if the wearer is telling the world: “I belong to someone, so don’t get too close to me.” This is especially true of engagement rings — Why does a woman (but not a man) have to mark herself “taken” the minute she accepts a proposal? — but also for regular old wedding bands. Genevieve, a freelance journalist in Jerusalem, told me she takes hers off when she gets annoyed with her partner, to give herself “some space.”

I took off my ring for a couple weeks while I was working on this story and was surprised at how freeing and natural it felt. And I was troubled by that, because I realized that all the time I’d been proudly wearing this piece of engraved gold on my finger, I may have been showing off — if only subconsciously.

I eventually put it back on. My marriage is still pretty new, and it’s still a source of pride for me. But I’m thinking that some day, when I’ve got a few more years of successful partnership under my belt and I’m feeling more settled, that pride will become more private, more personal.

And the ring might come off for good.

Here Two Words Which Have Really Helped My Marriage Grow (Don't Think They Are "I'm Sorry")

If you're anything like me, just hearing the word "conflict" sends you running to the hills. I'm a people-pleaser to the highest degree, so dealing with folks who aren't pleased with me causes me a lot of anxiety. Giving someone bad news, boldly stating my opinions when I know they differ from others', and having hard conversations aren't really strengths of mine. Usually I just fake it until I make it. Unfortunately, when it comes to marriage, one can only fake it so much.





John Gottman, Ph.D., a world-renowned marriage researcher, theorized three types of conflict styles that people tend to exhibit when in relationships with one another: avoidance, validating, and volatile. Avoiders, like me, resist conflict like the plague. People who are volatile are highly expressive with their emotions and have no problem discussing their differences in opinion with loved ones. Lastly, validators fall somewhere in between, expressing their emotions and opinions in steady and calm ways.

I first learned about these three conflict styles in graduate school during my couples' therapy class. Slowly I began to understand why my husband and I struggle so much during conflict: I'm a conflict avoider, and my husband is volatile, which is a significant mismatch. Any time we disagree, I want to run and hide, while he wants to talk it out—sometimes loudly. I couldn't help but wonder how in the world we'd actually work through this and learn how to productively resolve conflict.

A few months ago, however, I found hope. In a meeting, I was introduced to an exercise called "Ouch and Oops," not knowing it would have any kind of impact on my marriage. Everyone at the meeting was told that if anyone became offended by something someone else said, he/she should say, "Ouch!" Immediately, the person who made the offensive remark was to respond with "Oops!" and apologize for their mishap. The two individuals involved could later discuss the incident further, if appropriate. Instantly I was intrigued and wanted to tell my husband more about this exercise.

So many times, when I unintentionally say something hurtful, my husband reacts the way most volatile people usually do—loudly and emotionally. Instead of apologizing (as I should, since I did something wrong!), I can be quick to avoid the conversation altogether by being defensive.

Defensiveness is never helpful during a disagreement and as a result, my husband would often feel disregarded by my attempts to deflect his feelings.

"Ouch and Oops" works really well because it gives my husband a way to gently initiate conflict. As soon as I hear him say it, I know to immediately say "Oops!" and tune in to his feelings, rather than disregard them. It starts the conversation on the right foot before it gets out of hand, which also helps me feel less anxious. Honestly, it's been a win/win for the both of us.

I still remember having a quiet yet intense disagreement with my husband a few months ago. As soon as I heard him say "Ouch," I stopped in my tracks, said "Oops," and prepared myself to listen to his perspective. It almost didn't even feel like conflict but rather a really intense conversation. After we worked our way through it, I remember thinking, Wow…I think that helped. Prior to that evening, we had only really used "Ouch and Oops" in a joking manner. During that conversation, however, we actually respected each other's differences and found ourselves on the other side, completely unscathed.

If you and your partner really struggle to initiate conflict, perhaps because of differing conflict styles, I definitely recommend trying the "Ouch and Oops" method. It may sound silly, but in my experience, it works. I'm not going to guarantee that all your arguments will be smooth sailing here on out, but learning how to initiate conflict in a nonconfrontational manner certainly won't make matters worse.

Is your conflict style avoidance, validating, or volatile? What about your partner? Do you think something like "Ouch and Oops" could help you and your man argue more effectively?

*Akirah Robinson is a writer and breakup coach living in Pittsburgh, Pa. Learn more about her at akirahrobinson.com and check out her new book, Respected. *

How My Marriage Almost Ended In Divorce Just One Year Into Marriage

"So…how's married life?"

I hate this question. It requires me to be quick on my feet and always have pre-rehearsed answers at the ready. After a picture-perfect wedding, I'd been embarrassed to admit to others (and myself) how difficult married life had been. These innocent inquiries felt torturous; they were a constant reminder of the perfect life I had envisioned the moment we exchanged vows. My husband and I were struggling, and if I didn't find methods to resurrect the relationship that had me excitedly accepting his proposal, we would be headed towards divorce after less than a year of marriage.






To be clear, I love my husband. We share a wonderful life together in Manhattan and I am in no way looking to demean marriage. What I would like to put a stop to, however, is the idea that that the first year of marriage is a couple's "honeymoon phase." It's not always sexy, and it's not easy. We didn't regret our decision to spend our lives together, but the smiling photos of us and our newlywed friends on Facebook didn't match up to our reality.

Our story started like many metropolitan love stories. I moved to New York from San Francisco at 24 for a career in the fashion industry after ending a five-year relationship. I was ready for a fresh start and had heard epically exciting stories about the dating scene in New York (read: I had watched every episode of Sex and the City–multiple times). After a string of dates and failed short-term relationships, I met JP at an industry event and we immediately hit it off. His charming demeanor, undeniable spirit and most of all, his sincere attentiveness to every word I said, was endearing.

From the beginning, JP and I have always had a super easy going, fun and adventurous relationship. We barely ever argued; if we did, it was a grocery store pseudo-brawl about organic eggs versus cage free. Our romance started off as the best kind of effortless and easy connection–the type of thing you read about, not actually ever think you will ever experience. We had a natural connection that was unforced and went on the kind of dates that made us forget everyone else existed. We had great sex and memorable conversations that still make us laugh to this day–there was no doubt we were falling hard in love with each other.

I have always been the social type, but JP was a home body, comfortable staying in and Netflixing on a Friday night. I was Carrie Bradshaw wanting to go to the opening of Bungalow 8; he was Aiden, more than happy to stay at home with a bucket of chicken. In our dating years, this disparity never bothered us. We made it work; we compromised.

Eventually, we moved in together. Manhattan was not the kind of city where I could afford to pay rent in an apartment I never slept in. But, unlike I'd imagined it would be, our decision to live together wasn't romantic, it was a logical and matter-of-fact. Gone was the hope of JP proposing the idea and my swooning as we held hands and apartment hunted through Manhattan. Living together made sense; after two years of dating we shared a 500 square-foot river view apartment and officially ticked the box of the "next stage" in our relationship.

I'm not quite sure where we lost our way, but our once tradition of walking through the door and embracing into a little slow dance turned into not even saying hello or goodbye to one another. Small arguments about cleaning, laundry and how much clothing I owned ensued as date nights waned. We were spending lots of time together but quality time was heavily lacking. I understood that relationships went through ups and downs, but as the arguing continued I feared it would break us. If we couldn't get through living together, we likely couldn't handle much else.

We came to the conclusion that our problems started and would end with our tiny studio apartment, so we moved into a large one bedroom. We started reinstating our cute traditions; handwritten Post-it love notes reappeared in secret hidden places all over the apartment and our relationship felt like it was slowly crawling back into the light.

The author and her husband at their engagement party.


JP proposed to me in Grand Central following the most intricate scavenger hunt around the city, with clues hidden only in places we had been on dates. There were even clues hidden deep inside folds of books in the New York Public Library–he put so much thought into it and the moment was perfect. I knew I was incredibly lucky to have found this amazing man who loved me for everything that I am and as much as I could be.

Our plans to get married in a Catholic church required us to complete Pre Cana, pre marriage counseling, to ensure we were discussing the issues that more often than not, lead to divorce. We discussed finances, family, in-laws, personalities, anger issues and general checks and balances. Getting married at 30 had me confident that I was more equipped to handle married life than a 20-something bride. I wasn't expecting to ride off into the sunset and I wasn't expecting a fairytale. Not thinking we needed Pre Cana but being required to do it made me all the more sure we were prepared for marriage–after two years living together and four years of dating, we already felt like a married couple.

Wedding planning was treacherous and overwhelming; and a year's worth of organizing was the perfect distraction and excuse. I forked up any bickering to planning stress and dove deep into coordinating my custom dress, tablescapes and favors without considering that a perfect wedding does not equate to a perfect marriage. Months after our wedding, I found myself looking through our gorgeous photos and re-watching our wedding video over and over, hoping to recapture those genuine emotions. What was this "honeymoon stage" everyone spoke of? I fought off emptiness with a full social feed; a quick scroll through my Facebook or Instagram account and you would never imagine that the adorable couple pictured would be the one whose relationship was disintegrating with each and every post.

About six months into being husband and wife, it felt like I was failing at marriage. We had so quickly lost what I thought was a solid foundation. I knew I had a man who loved me and whom I loved in return, but our interactions felt monotonous and passionless. We were nothing like the 'frolicking into the sunset' honeymoon photos I was posting.

I have a rather dominant personality, and it unintentionally set the tone for our relationship. When we were dating, JP never resisted my suggestions, the way I lived my life, the decisions I made, how I acted–it was as if nothing I ever did bothered him. Now, it was beginning to feel as though everything I did got under his skin–and vice-versa. Our conversations turned from discussing goals, passions and pursuing dreams to the quality of the weather; we were basically roommates.

Talking about it didn't seem to make much of a difference–we weren't really listening to one another. I decided to go out with friends more and travel often in hopes of getting some perspective. The more time I spent away, I realized that our once-agreeable nature had come to a head; the subjects we once labeled as mainstays like my affinity for nights out, obsession with travel and his more low-key lifestyle were bubbling over in any marital argument that arose.

Rather than truly listen to each other's deep-seated needs early on, we both assumed the novelty of our husband and wife titles would smooth over any problems we'd encounter. We were living our lives by a socially-acceptable timeline (meet, date, fall in love, move in, get engaged, get married, get a dog, buy a house, have children…) without coming to terms with what was best for us as a couple and as individuals. Rather than speak our minds, we put on happy faces. Going from "me" to "we" seemed simple enough, but after getting married, it became a balancing act of finding our individual independence within our family unit.

After a week spent together in the Hamptons, we decided it was best to separate. I was an overachiever in every aspect, and my life felt as though it was falling apart; I never imagined that I would be 30, newly married and separated. Our approach to our marriage led us to this hurtful place. We took advantage of our marital status and assumed it would protect us from the days where we were too lazy to make an effort or threw out hurtful words during an argument. Spending our first Christmas as a married couple apart was heartbreaking. I wasn't happy in my relationship, but I was miserable without him.

My job as a fashion publicist and consultant is all about putting forth the best version of my clients for public consumption–in person, on social media and in photos. Portraying ideals and a picture perfect life comes naturally to me, and I had no trouble curating a social media campaign for my relationship rather than navigating how to be truly happy in my marriage. Selfies, status updates and news feeds create an underlying narcissism that rears its head when you find yourself updating your accounts while out to dinner with your spouse. But your emoji-ridden "date night!" caption underneath the photo of the molten chocolate cake you're sharing can wait.

As a New Year's resolution, we agreed to go to couple's counseling, where we realized that our life together was derailed by constantly striving for perfection. We were far from it–underneath most of our arguments was my resentment and refusal to give up the freedom and adventure I thought married life required me to relinquish (fun fact: it doesn't) and his frustration about feeling the need to hold back his thoughts and feelings under the guise of compromise. The formality of therapy had us talking, not arguing, and truly expressing emotion; we were opening up and listening to each other's wants and needs. Months later, we are a stronger couple and stronger people individually. Our date nights no longer take place at our therapist's office. Our realization that I was communicating with friends and the internet while he was swallowing emotions and confiding in no one helped us to focus on communicating with one another.

Is it a faux pas to be a newly married couple who isn't beaming with joy? I'll take that chance. Odds are, I'm not alone. I vowed to never again ask another newly married couple how married life is treating them–I know better. The only difference now is that when someone asks me that dreaded question, I can turn to the man holding my hand and share a knowing laugh before I answer.

Natasha is still traveling–with and without JP–follow her escapades on her Instagram @jetset.away and on her blog.

From: Harper's Bazaar