I knew there would be opinions.
But at the end of the day, I kept coming back to this simple truth: that with Jake, my life finally felt peaceful.
Our wedding was small. String lights and wildflowers and my cousin’s Spotify playlist.
My mom cried when she saw me in the dress; my dad pretended he wasn’t crying and failed.
Jake stood at the end of the aisle in a navy suit, staring at me like he couldn’t believe I was real.
Ryan was not invited, obviously.
I didn’t spend even a second wondering what he would think, and that felt like its own kind of miracle.
The ceremony was a blur of vows and laughter and terrible dancing.
I remember one moment clearly, though.
During the reception, I found Jake outside behind the venue, leaning against the wall, breathing like he’d just run a marathon.
“Hey, husband,” I teased, walking up to him.
He straightened so fast he almost knocked his head on the brick.
“Sorry,” he said, forcing a smile, “just needed a second to breathe.”
I thought he was overwhelmed, normal wedding stuff.
I kissed his cheek and dragged him back to the dance floor, not noticing how cold his hands were.
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