My mother said I should stay in the kitchen during the wedding photos—only until the “important guests” were gone. I didn’t mention that for the past year I had been

“Do you ever think about how weird this is?” I asked, glancing around at the history watching us.

“All the time,” he said, smiling. “But I also think about how lucky I am that you don’t treat it like it’s the point.”

“It’s not the point,” I said.

Daniel’s smile softened. “Good,” he murmured. “Because I didn’t fall in love with someone who wanted the point.”

My heart stumbled at the words, even though love had already lived between us for months like an unspoken fact.

“You said it,” I whispered.

He looked at me, eyes steady. “Yeah,” he said. “I did.”

A week before Christmas, my parents asked me to come home for a weekend. Not for a party. Not for a photo. Just dinner.

I hesitated, then went.

My mother cooked something simple and slightly over-salted. My father asked real questions about my work and waited for the answers. When Daniel called during dessert, my mother didn’t lunge for the phone or ask to speak to him like he was a celebrity. She just smiled and said, “Tell him hello,” like he was a person.