No pity.
No Caleb.
My father walked me down the aisle again.
Older now.
Still crying.
My mother wore blue and kept touching my hair because it had grown back in soft dark curls.
Dr. Shah came.
So did Owen’s niece, who brought the plastic dinosaur and placed it beside the cake “for protection.”
When I reached Owen, he whispered, “You look like trouble.”
I whispered back, “You look expensive.”
“I rented the suit.”
“Of course you did.”
The officiant was the same woman from the first ceremony.
She smiled at us and said, “I have been waiting years to do this properly.”
Everyone laughed.
This time, when vows came, I had words ready.
“Owen,” I said, “the first time you stood beside me at an altar, you refused to lie.”
His eyes filled.
“I was furious.”
A ripple of laughter.
“Then grateful. Then terrified. Then in love.”
My voice shook.
“You met me when I thought my life was ending. But you did not treat me like an ending. You treated me like a person still allowed to choose, laugh, rage, hope, and eat cake.”
He wiped his eyes.
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