After my sister died, I fell apart.
There was no graceful way to describe it.
Some mornings, getting dressed felt impossible.
I forgot appointments.
Ignored phone calls.
Sometimes something as small as hearing a song would make me cry.
Luke practically carried me through those months.
He cooked.
He handled phone calls.
He drove me places when I couldn’t concentrate.
And on the nights when I couldn’t stop crying, he simply sat beside me.
He never told me to move on.
He never made my grief about him.
One night, months after the funeral, I apologized.
“I’m not much fun anymore.”
Luke looked genuinely confused.
“Why are you apologizing?”
“Because this isn’t what you signed up for.”
He took my hand.
“I signed up for you.”
I cried harder after that.
Eventually, life became manageable again.
Then Luke proposed.
At the same bakery where we first met.
I thought we were only stopping for coffee.
Instead, he led me toward the table near the window, took my hand, and got down on one knee.
For once, I didn’t wonder why he had chosen me.
I simply said yes.
His parents hated that too.
But Luke married me anyway.
I remember standing at the altar thinking:
How did I get this lucky?
And still, somewhere deep inside me, one tiny question remained.
What if there was a catch?
I just didn’t know that years later, I would finally find something that made me ask that question all over again.
