But our story doesn’t end there. What happened next? What we discovered about love, family, and building a legacy… well, that’s when everything made sense.
After Thomas, four more children were born: William in 1860, Margaret in 1863, James in 1865, and Elizabeth in 1868. We raised them in freedom, teaching them to be proud of their origins and sending them to schools that accepted black children.
And my legs. In 1865, Josiah designed an orthopedic device: metal splints attached to my legs and connected to a brace around my waist. Thanks to these splints and crutches, I could stand, I could walk—awkwardly, but I could.
For the first time since I was 8 years old, I walked.
“You’ve given me so much,” I told Josiah that day, standing in our house, tears streaming down my cheeks. “You’ve given me love, confidence, and children. And now, you’ve literally allowed me to walk.”
“You’ve always walked, Ellaner.” He watched me take my first hesitant steps. “I just gave you different tools.”
My father visited us twice, in 1862 and 1869. He met his grandchildren, saw our house, our business, our life. He witnessed our happiness and saw that his radical solution had worked better than expected. He died in 1870, leaving his inheritance to my cousin Robert, as required by Virginia law. But he left me a letter.
“My dearest Elellanar, when you read these words, I will no longer be here. You must know that trusting Josiah was the best decision of my life. I thought I was protecting you, but I didn’t realize I was giving you love. You were never indestructible. Society was too blind to see your worth. Thank God, Josiah wasn’t. Live well, my daughter. Be happy. You deserve it. I love you, Dad.”
Josiah and I lived together in Philadelphia for 38 years. We grew old together, watched our children grow up, welcomed our grandchildren, and built a legacy despite the impossible situation we were in.
I died on March 15, 1895, exactly 38 years after leaving Virginia. Pneumonia overcame me quickly; my last words to Josiah, as he held my hand, were: “Thank you for seeing me, for loving me, for healing me.”
Josiah died the next day, March 16, 1895. The doctor said his heart had simply stopped, but our children knew the truth. He couldn’t live without me, just as I couldn’t live without him. We were buried together in Eden Cemetery in Philadelphia, under the same headstone that reads: Ellaner and Josiah Freeman. Married in 1857, died in 1895. A love that defied the impossible.
Our five children all had successful lives. Thomas became a doctor. William became a lawyer and fought for civil rights. Margaret became a teacher and educated thousands of Black children. James became an engineer and designed buildings throughout Philadelphia. Elizabeth became a writer.
In 1920, Elizabeth published the book “My Mother, the Beast, and the Love That Changed Everything.” In it, she told our story: that of a white woman deemed unworthy of marriage and a beast, defined as such by a society of enslaved men. And how the radical solution of a desperate father gave rise to one of the most beautiful love stories of the 19th century.
Historical records bear witness to everything. Josiah’s manumission papers, his marriage certificate, the founding of Freeman’s Forge in Philadelphia in 1857, our five children—all registered in the Philadelphia birth records—my improved mobility thanks to orthotic devices, documented in personal letters. We both died in March 1895, one day apart, and were buried in Eden Cemetery. Elizabeth’s book, published in 1920, became an important historical document on interracial marriage and disability in the 19th century. The Freeman family preserved detailed records, including letters from Colonel Whitmore and Josiah’s manumission papers, which were donated to the Pennsylvania Historical Society in 1965. Our story has been studied as an example of disability rights history and the history of race relations during the era of slavery.
