The Night Before
The night before our wedding, I drove to the cemetery with roses. The air was heavy, the oaks groaned in the wind. I spoke to Catherine as I always had.
“Tomorrow I marry Rachel,” I whispered. “She’s kind, she’s patient. But… am I betraying you by loving her?”
My voice cracked. “Do I even love her the way I loved you? Or am I just pretending?”
That’s when I heard footsteps. A woman approached with her own bouquet. She hesitated, then softly said, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to intrude.”
Her name was Sofia. She was visiting her brother Miguel, gone too soon from a motorcycle crash. We talked for an hour—two grieving strangers clinging to memories.
Her words pierced me: “Some days I call his number just to hear his voicemail.”
We stood in silence before leaving. Then she asked: “Do you think they know we’re here?”
I swallowed. “I hope so.”
And when she whispered, “Even if being happy means letting go?”—that question followed me into the morning of my wedding.
