Three months after burying my fiancé, I forced myself to work at another wedding. Then I saw his mother walk away from me, and her reaction made no sense.
Adrian and I were going to get married that summer.
By spring, almost everything was ready. We had already booked the venue. I had already chosen my dress.
We argued about the flavors of the cakes and laughed at how ridiculous we sounded.
I wanted chocolate.
I wanted lemon.
“Are we seriously fighting over a cake now?” Adrian asked one night, staring at me from across the kitchen table.
“We’re not fighting,” I said. “I’m explaining why you’re wrong.”
She laughed so hard she almost spilled her coffee.
Those were the moments I returned to again and again.
No grand plans. No guest list, no flowers.
I remembered her laughter, the way she leaned on the counter, and her certainty that we had many years ahead of us.
Six weeks before our wedding, Adrian died in a car accident.
There was no warning. There was no final conversation. There was no opportunity to say anything important.
One day, he was deciding where to seat his uncle, which was quite difficult.
Next, I set about identifying Adrian’s belongings.
The accident was so serious that we buried him in a closed coffin.
