Any important decisions I made would forever have to be discussed with another person. I twisted the rings around my finger. I was going to have to share my space, change my schedules, and worry about someone else whenever I made plans.

Panic seeped in until I heard Alex singing happily in the shower.

I would always have someone to come home to, someone to share expenses with, someone who would kill spiders and change light bulbs. I’d never have to worry about putting an extra blanket on the bed, because sleeping with Alex was like sleeping with a space heater. I smiled to myself.

He also hogged the blankets.

“Well, wife,” Alex called out as he stepped from the shower and began to dry off. “Are you ready to head back to reality?”

I really wasn’t. Missouri was school and work and schedules and deadlines. It was calling my aunt and uncle and breaking the news that I’d gotten married when they hadn’t even known that I was engaged.

Growing up, I’d had my wedding planned out. I’d get married in a synagogue to a boy that my parents loved. My mom and aunt would help me get dressed, and my dad would walk me down the aisle. We’d have a big party afterward, and then my husband and I would go on some extravagant honeymoon that my parents had gifted us for our wedding. The details had always been vague, but the idea had been solid. It was how things were done in our community. Long engagements, fancy weddings, fabulous honeymoons.

Imagining any of that now made me want to scream. So I’d pretty much done the exact opposite. My aunt was going to lose her mind when she found out. I swallowed hard as I felt myself break out in a cold sweat. To say that I was dreading that conversation would be an understatement. Was there something worse than dread? Because the feeling in the pit of my stomach was definitely worse than that.

Aunt Adinah would be heartbroken if I told her how painful it was to even think about planning a wedding without my mother. That the thought of walking down the aisle by myself or with Uncle Isaac made me want to cry. She’d be understanding, and she’d never make me feel bad about it, but I knew it would hurt her. I was the only child she had, and I’d never want her to feel like she wasn’t enough. No, it was better this way. I would rather have her angry with me than sad.