“Every memory.”
“He told me most of them.”
“The proposal?”
Jake closed his eyes.
“That was mine.”
I laughed once, but there was no humor in it.
“Was any of it real?”
“My love for you is real.”
“You built it using his name.”
“I know.”
“You let me grieve 20 lost years that never existed between us.”
“I know.”
“You let my mother welcome you as the child she remembered.”
He looked toward her.
“I am sorry.”
My mother shook her head, crying.
“You ate at my table.”
“I know.”
I wanted to scream at him.
Instead, I whispered, “Why today?”
His answer came slowly.
“Because every day I waited made it harder. I kept telling myself I would tell you after the next dinner, the next holiday, the next week.”
“And then?”
“Then I loved you.”
“That should have made you tell me.”
“It should have.”
“Instead, you proposed.”
He lowered his head.
“I was afraid that if you knew, I would lose you.”
“You were about to let me marry a man who did not exist.”
He began sobbing.
“Yes.”
The word broke something in me.
I turned to the priest.
“The wedding is over.”
Jake nodded as though he had expected nothing else.
Guests began whispering. My mother came toward me, but I held up my hand.
“I need air.”
