Three months after burying my fiancé, I forced myself to work another wedding. Then I saw his mother slipping away from me, and her reaction made no sense.
Adrian and I were supposed to get married that summer.
By spring, almost everything was ready. We’d already booked the venue. I’d chosen my dress.
We argued over cake flavors and laughed at how ridiculous we 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 kept returning to later.
Not the big plans. Not the guest list or the flowers.
I remembered his laugh, the way he leaned against the counter, and how certain I had been that we had years ahead of us.
Then, six weeks before our wedding, Adrian died in a car accident.
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