At 34, my parents wouldn’t stop nagging me about getting married. They even threatened to withhold my inheritance unless I tied the knot by 35. Fed up, I impulsively offered to marry a homeless man I saw begging. His name was Stan, and he agreed to a marriage of convenience. I provided him with clothes, shelter, and money, and he posed as my husband. My parents were thrilled. A month later, I came home to find Stan dressed in an expensive tuxedo, holding a velvet box. To my shock, he proposed for real, confessing he’d fallen in love with me. Confused, I asked how he could afford it. That’s when he revealed the truth. Stan wasn’t just a homeless man — he was a wealthy businessman whose brothers had betrayed him, stealing his company and identity. Left with nothing, he ended up on the streets. After our marriage, he used the resources I gave him to fight back, hiring a powerful law firm that took on his case. “I’m not a poor man,” Stan said, “but I’ve spent my life looking for someone who loves me for who I am. You were kind when you thought I had nothing.” I was overwhelmed. I told him I needed time to process everything. We agreed to revisit his proposal in six months, after his court battle. Until then, I’d support him. Stan slipped the ring on my finger, and we kissed for the first time. I thought I was entering a fake marriage — instead, I found something real. Life truly works in mysterious ways