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.