Legal words.
Beautiful words.
“I now pronounce you husband and wife.”
Owen kissed me.
Not as an actor.
Not as a support person.
As my husband.
And this time, nobody reclaimed the day.
There was nothing left to reclaim.
It was already ours.
Ten years later, we renewed our vows at the original venue.
Not because we needed to.
Because my father insisted he had paid for 120 guests once and “deserved a normal party before he died.”
He did not die.
He danced badly for three hours and complained about the DJ.
My mother wore silver shoes and told everyone, “This is the wedding I ordered.”
Dr. Shah came again.
Owen’s niece, now in college, brought the same plastic dinosaur.
Meatball had passed years earlier, so we placed his collar near the guest book because my father said he was family and my mother said, “He bit three cousins,” and my father said, “Still family.”
Caleb sent a card.
I almost didn’t open it.
Owen said, “You don’t have to.”
“I know.”
I opened it anyway.
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