Three months after bu:rying my fiancé, I forced myself to work another wedding. Then I saw his mother slipping away from me, and her reaction immediately felt wrong.
Adrian and I were supposed to get married that summer.
By spring, almost everything had been arranged. The venue was booked. My dress was chosen.
We argued over cake flavors and laughed at how ridiculous the argument sounded.
He wanted chocolate.
I wanted lemon.
“We’re seriously fighting over cake now?” Adrian asked one night, staring at me across our kitchen table.
“We’re not fighting,” I said. “I’m explaining why you’re wrong.”
He laughed so hard he nearly spilled his coffee.
Those were the moments I remembered afterward.
Not the guest list. Not the flowers. Not the wedding plans.
I remembered his laugh, the way he leaned against the counter, and how certain I was that we had years ahead of us.
