When I got my wedding photos back, I expected drunk dancing and chaos. I did not expect to find my dad secretly handing guests cash all night.
I thought getting our wedding photos back would be the easy part.
You know that feeling after a wedding where your body is wrecked, your voice is gone, your feet are killing you, but you are still floating because somehow the whole thing actually happened? That was me for two straight weeks. I was exhausted, happy, and honestly a little smug because despite a dozen tiny disasters, our wedding had turned out perfect.
Not perfect in the polished, magazine-cover way.
The florist was late. My husband, Ben, forgot his vows in the hotel room and had to sprint back for them. My aunt got tipsy before sunset and cried in the bathroom because my centerpieces made her “miss the early 2000s.”
Somebody’s kid stole three macarons off the dessert table and denied it with frosting all over his face.
It was loud and messy and hilarious. People stayed until almost three in the morning. My college friends screamed every word to old party songs like we were all nineteen again.
My eighty-year-old great-aunt did a slow, threatening version of the Cupid Shuffle. Ben’s cousin split his pants during “Yeah!” and just kept dancing like nothing happened.
It was, without question, the best night of my life.
So when the photographer finally sent the gallery, I made tea, curled up on the couch, and got ready to relive the whole thing.
I laughed at my bridesmaids making feral faces in the photo booth. I zoomed in on my uncle asleep upright in a chair with cake on his tie. I saved at least fifteen pictures of Ben looking at me like he could not believe I was real.
What happened next changed everything… FULL STORY on the next page.
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