appeared at a wedding she wasn’t invited to. I followed her, and what I found in that bridal room made my grief feel suddenly unfinished.
Three months ago, I was supposed to marry Andrew.
Instead, I buried him.
Even now, those two sentences did not seem like they belonged beside each other.
One belonged to the life I had planned.
The other belonged to the one I had been forced into.
Andrew died suddenly, just 12 days before our wedding.
Twelve days.
That was close enough that my wedding dress was already altered.
The seating chart was finished.
The florist had confirmed the centerpieces.
Andrew’s suit was hanging in his apartment, waiting for a day that never came.
One week, I was worrying about whether it might rain during our pictures.
The next, I was choosing flowers for his funeral.
People kept telling me they were sorry.[]
They brought food I could not taste and hugged me while I stared past their shoulders.
