Great-aunt Rose flew in too, at 82 still sharp as a tack, with a way of looking at people that made you feel like she saw the truth beneath your smile.

“Marriage isn’t about the ceremony,” she told me the night before, squeezing my hands. “It’s about choosing each other again and again when life gets messy. Marry someone who chooses you back, sweetheart.”

I thought I understood. Maverick and I had already survived a few storms—his dad’s health scare, my job hunt, saving for a house. I believed we were ready.

I went to bed smiling, imagining the aisle, the music, the moment our eyes met.

June 15th was bright, breezy, and beautiful—the kind of day you picture when you dream about your wedding. I woke in my childhood bedroom, sunlight slipping through the lace curtains from my tween years. For a heartbeat, I felt young again—safe and full of possibility.