Three months after burying my fiancé, I forced myself to work another wedding. Then I saw his mother slipping away from me, and her reaction made no sense.
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Adrian and I were supposed to get married that summer.
By spring, almost everything was ready. We’d already booked the venue. I’d chosen my dress.
We argued over cake flavors and laughed at how ridiculous we 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 kept returning to later.
Not the big plans. Not the guest list or the flowers.
I remembered his laugh, the way he leaned against the counter, and how certain I had been that we had years ahead of us.
Then, six weeks before our wedding, Adrian died in a car accident.
There was no warning. No final conversation. No chance to say anything important.
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One day, I was deciding where to seat his difficult uncle.
The next, I was identifying Adrian’s belongings.
The crash was so bad that we buried him in a closed casket.
I remember standing beside his mother, Colleen, at the funeral, holding her hand while they lowered Adrian into the ground.
She squeezed my fingers so hard they hurt.
Neither of us said much.
There wasn’t anything useful to say.
People kept coming up to me afterward, quietly.
They hugged me, told me Adrian loved me, and promised that time would make things easier.
I nodded because I didn’t know what else to do.
I thought that was the worst day of my life.
Three months later, I learned I was wrong.
I’m a florist.
Before Adrian died, weddings had always been my favorite jobs.