Five Nos, One Better Bride
When Sylvia Reed postponed our wedding for the fifth time, I found a pregnancy test report in her bag and decided to force the issue.
Then I saw a trending local post.
A woman rolled up her sleeves, baking cookies. Beside her, a man bent down to tease a child.
One look was enough.
I recognized the scar on her wrist.
It was in the exact same spot as the one Sylvia got years ago when she took a knife for me.
The scarf draped over the man's shoulders was one I'd custom-made for Sylvia.
Our initials were stitched into it.
The sight burned.
I thought about how Sylvia had been glued to her phone lately, and how I'd heard a baby crying through it.
Ten minutes ago, she'd sent me a voice message.
"Luke, something urgent came up at the company. I can't make it back to try on the suit with you. Maybe we should postpone the wedding again? Next year. We'll definitely do it next year."
But I'd already waited seven years for this wedding.
I took off my groom's suit and cut it to pieces.
Then I wiped my eyes, pulled out my phone, and dialed a number I hadn't called in seven years.
"I'm short a bride for my wedding. Interested?"