Minutes before saying ‘I do,’ I locked myself in the bathroom to calm my nerves. Then, the door opened and I heard a voice that shattered my world: it was Jerry, my fiancé, confessing the cruelest truth.

The church bathroom mirror reflected back at me a woman who seemed to have it all. The white lace dress, a masterpiece of silk and beading that had cost more than I could afford, clung to my body like a second skin. My makeup was flawless, designed to withstand the tears of joy I was sure to shed in less than an hour. But what the mirror didn’t show was the knot in my stomach, that dizzying feeling that had forced me to retreat to the women’s restroom in the basement, away from the bustle of the guests, the laughter of my bridesmaids, and my father’s proud gaze.

“It’s just stage fright,” I kept telling myself, resting my hands on the cold marble of the sink. “You love Jerry. He’s the man of your life. This is normal.”

And I truly believed it. Jerry and I had had a fairytale romance. He was attentive, charismatic, and, in my eyes, perfect. We had overcome obstacles, distance, and doubts to reach this day. In my mind, I envisioned our life together: a house with a garden, Sunday barbecues, children running down the hallway, and us, growing old hand in hand. The image was so vivid, so beautiful, that it almost dispelled the anxiety that gripped my chest.