I had always known he was an orphan, adopted by a couple who later had a daughter of their own.
After his adoptive parents passed away, Dorothea became the only family he had left in the world.
I understood that being abandoned as a child left him with wounds he tried to hide, scars that made the idea of building a family feel like a fragile dream.
And so, I waited. Year after year, I waited for him to find his way to me.
Seven years slipped by, yet not once did he mention marriage.
Every time I tried to bring it up, he would evade the topic, skillfully steering the conversation elsewhere.
I convinced myself it was just a matter of time.
But what I hadn’t seen, what I had foolishly ignored, was the presence of another woman standing between us all along.
It was always her. She could summon him with a single phone call, claiming to be unwell, even if I had traveled miles just to see him.
On my birthday, I spent hours getting ready, imagining a perfect evening together. I had set the scene, dressed in my best, my heart brimming with hope.