I’d spent years dreaming of my perfect wedding, never imagining my groom would lean in at the altar, whisper “Bye, witch,” and then turn to marry his EX, shattering my world in front of everyone.
When I was ten, I’d sit on the back porch with my sister Rebecca, our legs swinging under the old wooden bench.
The boards were warm from the sun, and when I pressed my palm to them, I could feel the day’s heat sinking into my skin. The air always smelled like lilacs from the bush by the fence.
On quiet afternoons, the scent was so heavy it felt like you could taste it.
We talked about the years ahead as if we could shape them with nothing but words. Like we were writing a map that the world would have to follow.
Rebecca always said she’d have her own clothing line one day.
She pulled out her school notebooks, the math problems half-finished, the corners filled with quick sketches.
Dresses that flowed like river water, shoes with fat satin bows, jackets with silver buttons that caught the sun.
“I’ll have a big house too,” she said, her eyes distant like she could already see it.
She used to laugh after saying that, a short, proud laugh, like the future was already hers.
I didn’t care about houses or cars.
My dreams were softer, smaller in size, but heavier in feeling.
I dreamed about love.
Pictured meeting the man I was meant for, how his eyes would lock on mine in a way that told me I was the only one.
I imagined how our hands would fit together, fingers weaving like they’d always known the way.
And my wedding…
Oh, that was my favorite dream.
I saw white lights strung across a high ceiling, music so soft it felt like a whisper in the ear.
Tables heavy with food, flowers spilling over in every corner.
***
Years moved fast, like water in a stream after the rain.
And finally, there I was.
Standing in a wedding dress that Rebecca had made with her own hands.
The silk slid over me when I moved, cool and smooth, catching the light as if it were made for it.
The neckline dipped just enough to be daring without being loud.
Rebecca was on her knees, smoothing the hem. Her fingers were quick and careful, like she was afraid of missing even a single wrinkle.
“Hold still,” she muttered, her brow creased in concentration.
When she stood, her eyes moved over me from head to toe.
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