A bride-to-be wonders what love has to do with weddings.
My boyfriend proposed on an ordinary Thursday evening, minutes after I came home from work and took off my pants.
We were headed to an event at the Levine Museum of the New South that night, and I only had a few minutes to change clothes. I’d wandered back to his office in our Plaza Midwood bungalow to say hello.
“How was your day?” I asked.
“It was fine,” he replied. “Today was my father’s birthday.”
Guilt flooded my stomach. His father died seven years ago, before I was around to meet him, but he was my love’s hero. All the stories I’ve heard about him—as a Naval officer during the Vietnam War, as a dad who defended his son against bullies and charmed strangers with his deadpan humor—helped me understand the man he had raised. I knew how important this day was to my boyfriend, and yet I’d done nothing to prepare.
“I’m so sorry I forgot,” I said.He seemed oddly unconcerned. He was busy reaching into his bachelor’s chest to retrieve a small box. Apparently, he had decided to make a new memory this year.
“In honor of that,” he said, referring to his dad’s birthday, “I wanted to give you this.”
He opened the box and took out his grandmother’s diamond engagement ring.
“You can have it as long as you want to be my wife.”
That was April. For the next two months we rode the high, walking around with stupid grins on our faces, blushing and blinking at the diamonds on my left hand. We were so busy feeling pleased with ourselves, we thought it absurd to think too far ahead. We were engaged! We were getting married in early November! Wasn’t that all anyone needed to know?
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