“You taught me that love is not the man who says forever when forever is easy. Love is the man who says, ‘I’m here today,’ and keeps saying it until today becomes years.”
My mother sobbed loudly.
My father handed her a tissue without looking away from me.
“So here is my vow. I will not waste the life I got back. I will not pretend fear is gone. I will not make survival pretty just to comfort other people. I will love you honestly, loudly, stubbornly, and with better coffee than you deserve.”
Owen laughed through tears.
“I deserve normal coffee.”
“You deserve consequences.”
Then his vows.
“Emily,” he said, “I once thought grief was a room you learned to live inside. Then you came in wearing a wedding dress and kicked out a wall.”
I cried immediately.
Unfair.
“You made me understand that staying is not passive. Staying is a choice. A discipline. A daily act of courage. I vow to stay when life is ordinary, when it is frightening, when scans are clean, when scans are not, when the dog hates me, when the grilled cheese burns, when you buy curtains that attack the human eye.”
“They’re cheerful,” I whispered.
“They’re criminal.”
Everyone laughed.
His voice softened.
“I vow not to worship your survival so much that I forget your humanity. I vow to love you when you are strong and when you are tired of being called strong. I vow to remember that forever is made of days, and every day with you is one I choose.”
The officiant finally said the words.
Real words.
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