To my right stands Aaron’s Dominican family, who I finally got to meet on a trip last year, each of them kinder than then last. On my left, Aqidah is holding her husband’s hand while her two sons wave at me. I wave back. I know Josslyn, her daughter, walked in before me as our flower girl. Behind her stands Finn, Aaron’s cousin Will, and his wife, Violet, who I’ve gotten close to in the past year. We text every few days, and she’s always there to remind me of my worth in her life, and Aaron’s too, just like I do when her anxiety and depression rear their ugly heads and she starts pulling away. A few other friends of Aaron are here to celebrate with us. All the people we need.

Well, minus one.

My mother passed away six months ago. It was peaceful, in her sleep. She simply stopped breathing. It was the one thing that brought me joy, that she died in a dignified, calm way.

Her death itself, though, was hard to take in. It wasn’t a relief like I’d expected. Despite all the struggles of her life with Alzheimer’s, there seemed to be happiness to be found in her own little world. Nurses would tell me how big her smile got when they gave her plastic dolls to care for or laundry to fold. Even though it wasn’t the life she’d known, it was her life, and losing her caused a deep, bittersweet grief. Thankfully, my fiancé and his family were there for me to help me through it all.

Only once I’ve looked at everyone around me do I lift my head to the front, and my heart stops.

Aaron stands in front of a white flower arch, his dark hair styled the way I love, a few strands falling onto his face. He wears the white shirt and beige pants we picked together, nothing too formal for a wedding that was meant to be intimate. He looks too handsome for life.

But what strikes me the most is the smile he’s sporting. In the past two years, I’ve seen my optimistic, full-of-life boyfriend grin on so many occasions, I’ve lost count, yet today takes the cake. I’ve overcome a lot of the doubt I had in the past about our relationship being good for him—thanks to online support groups for people with eFAD, self-reflection on my warped vision of life, love, and worth, and endless discussions with the people surrounding me and my therapist—but this smile truly makes me see that I can make him happy. So happy.

When we reach the end of aisle, I turn to hug Dennis, thanking him again with a tight squeeze. Aaron does too, and then it’s just us.

“You look stunning, cariño,” he whispers as he takes my hands and kisses the knuckles.