Six months ago, when Chris knelt in the park where we’d shared our first date and asked me to marry him, it felt like something out of a dream. We chose a fall wedding—on my birthday, no less. It felt perfect, like two celebrations rolled into one unforgettable day. Chris was the planner: steady and thoughtful. I was the artist, spontaneous and heart-led. Somehow, we balanced each other perfectly.
Everything was ready. Invitations sent, my dress fitted, every detail in place. But a month before the big day, Chris sat me down with unexpected news: he’d need to postpone the wedding. A last-minute work trip had come up, scheduled right on our wedding weekend.
“It’s just three days,” he said gently. “It could lead to a big promotion—a better future, a longer honeymoon. It’s for us.”
Though it hurt, I agreed. I made the calls, informed our guests, and tried to mask my heartbreak with smiles. But when my birthday arrived—the day I should’ve been walking down the aisle—I couldn’t pretend anymore.
I spent the day alone, wandering the city in a daze. I turned down my friends’ kind invitations and walked aimlessly, trying to quiet the ache inside. Eventually, I found myself near a boutique hotel and decided to stop in for a drink.
Continue reading on next page…