Three months after bu:rying my fiancé, I forced myself to work another wedding. Then I saw his mother slipping away from me, and her reaction immediately felt wrong.
Adrian and I were supposed to get married that summer.
By spring, almost everything had been arranged. The venue was booked. My dress was chosen.
We argued over cake flavors and laughed at how ridiculous the argument 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 remembered afterward.
Not the guest list. Not the flowers. Not the wedding plans.
I remembered his laugh, the way he leaned against the counter, and how certain I was that we had years ahead of us.
Then, six weeks before the wedding, Adrian died in a car accident.
No warning. No goodbye. No final chance to say anything important.
One day, I was deciding where to seat his difficult uncle.
The next, I was identifying Adrian’s belongings.
The crash was so severe that we buried him in a closed casket.
At the funeral, I stood beside his mother, Colleen, holding her hand as Adrian was lowered into the ground.
She squeezed my fingers until they hurt.
Neither of us said much.
There was nothing useful to say.
Afterward, people approached me quietly.
They hugged me, told me Adrian loved me, and promised time would make things easier.
I nodded because I had no idea what else to do.
What happened next changed everything… FULL STORY on the next page.
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