“We’re seriously fighting over cake now?” Adrian asked one night, staring at me across our kitchen table.
“We’re not fighting,” I said. “I’m explaining why you’re wrong.”
He laughed so hard he nearly spilled his coffee.
Those were the moments I kept returning to later.
Not the big plans. Not the guest list or the flowers.
I remembered his laugh, the way he leaned against the counter, and how certain I had been that we had years ahead of us.
Then, six weeks before our wedding, Adrian died in a car accident.
There was no warning. No final conversation. No chance to say anything important.
One day, I was deciding where to seat his difficult uncle.
The next, I was identifying Adrian’s belongings.
The crash was so bad that we buried him in a closed casket.
I remember standing beside his mother, Colleen, at the funeral, holding her hand while they lowered Adrian into the ground.
