Three months after bu:rying my fiancé, I forced myself to work another wedding. Then I saw his mother slipping away from me, and her reaction immediately felt wrong.
Adrian and I were supposed to get married that summer.
By spring, almost everything had been arranged. The venue was booked. My dress was chosen.
We argued over cake flavors and laughed at how ridiculous the argument sounded.
He wanted chocolate.
I wanted lemon.
“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 remembered afterward.
Not the guest list. Not the flowers. Not the wedding plans.
I remembered his laugh, the way he leaned against the counter, and how certain I was that we had years ahead of us.
Then, six weeks before the wedding, Adrian died in a car accident.
No warning. No goodbye. No final 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 severe that we buried him in a closed casket.
At the funeral, I stood beside his mother, Colleen, holding her hand as Adrian was lowered into the ground.
She squeezed my fingers until they hurt.
Neither of us said much.
There was nothing useful to say.
Afterward, people approached me quietly.
They hugged me, told me Adrian loved me, and promised time would make things easier.
I nodded because I had no idea what else to do.
I believed that was the worst day of my life.
Three months later, I discovered I was wrong.
I’m a florist.
Before Adrian passed away, weddings were my favorite jobs.
I loved arriving before the guests, while the venue still looked unfinished, then watching an empty room turn into a celebration.
Flowers could completely change a space.
The right centerpiece could make a plain table romantic. Greenery and candlelight could soften a cold ballroom. A nervous bride could relax the moment someone handed her a bouquet.
After Adrian died, even looking at a bridal bouquet reminded me of the one I had chosen for myself.
So I stopped accepting weddings.
For weeks, I handled birthdays, corporate events, and sympathy arrangements instead.
Anything except weddings.
Even hearing the word “fiancé” made my stomach tighten.
Eventually, though, bills forced me back.
Grief did not stop rent, supplier invoices, or shop expenses.
So three months after Adrian’s funeral, I agreed to take wedding jobs again.
I told myself work might help.
That morning, another florist I sometimes worked with called in sick and asked me to cover a wedding.
She sounded miserable.
“I know it’s last minute,” she said. “I wouldn’t ask unless I really needed you.”
I looked around my shop.
Buckets of roses stood beside the cooler. My assistant was already organizing deliveries.
Every instinct told me to refuse.
“I’ll do it,” I said.
A few hours later, I was arranging flowers at a reception venue I had never worked before when I noticed a familiar woman near the entrance.
Colleen.
For a second, I thought grief was playing another trick on me.
Then she turned.
It was definitely her.
I almost called out.
Then she saw me.
Her expression shifted—not into sadness or surprise, but something closer to fear.
