As I walked down the aisle, I didn’t feel the usual movie-moment sadness about who wasn’t there. I’d grieved that already.
What I felt was something steadier:
Belonging.
Julian took my hands and whispered, “You’re here,” like he said in the dark after my nightmares. “You’re safe.”
We said our vows under the oak tree, and when Julian kissed me, my friends cheered so loudly the neighbors clapped from their porch.
Later that night, after the music softened and the last guest left, Julian and I stood barefoot in the grass, holding leftover cake on plates, laughing like teenagers.
“I’m married to you,” I said, like it was unbelievable.
Julian grinned. “You sure are,” he said. “Stuck with me now.”
I leaned into him, and the old fear—the fear that love was conditional, that it could be revoked—didn’t rise.
Because love like this didn’t demand I sell pieces of myself to earn it.
It just asked me to show up.
Part 9
Two years after the wedding, our son learned to walk.
It happened in the living room on a Tuesday afternoon while Julian was on a work call and I was kneeling on the rug with a toy dinosaur in my hand, making ridiculous roaring noises.