We were finally a week away from the wedding I’d waited two years for. No more excuses, no more delays. But that night, I found Wade in the garage—sobbing like I’d never seen—clutching a small red jacket I didn’t recognize.
“It’s his,” he said. And everything changed.
I’m not ungrateful, I swear.
When Wade proposed to me on that cold October morning two years ago, his hands shook like bare branches in the wind.
His voice cracked as he held out the little velvet box, a ring glinting inside like a promise.
He said, “Forever, Em. I want forever with you.”
I said yes without even blinking.
Now, I lie awake some nights wondering if he ever really meant it.
Because two years have passed. Two whole years of plans made and broken.
Of hopeful calendars and crossed-out dates.
Every time we got close, another excuse showed up like clockwork.
“Money’s tight, babe,” he’d say, kissing my forehead.
Or, “Forecast says rain—can’t risk the whole thing being a washout.”
Then there was Aunt Ruth’s broken hip.
Grandma’s dizzy spells. The flu. The farm.
“Its not a perfect date,” for gods sake!
Excuses that fell around us like dry leaves in a storm.
But this time—this week—it was supposed to be real. The date locked in. The church booked.
Invitations sent.
Even his father, Dale—hard as old boots and twice as stubborn—had sat him down and said, “Son, you stallin’ long enough. Don’t let her slip through your fingers.”
And I believed Wade was ready.
That morning, he flipped pancakes and hummed under his breath. Kissed my cheek like he meant it.
“Almost there, Em,” he whispered.
But all day he moved like a shadow. Quiet.
Edgy.
I found him staring out the window, his shoulders tense, jaw clenched so hard I thought his teeth might crack.
That night, something woke me.
It wasn’t loud. Not a crash or a thud.
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