When she first mentioned marriage, I froze. She said it so casually, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. At 23, it probably was—her future still felt wide open. But for me, at 37, marriage wasn’t just a word. It was a scar that still hadn’t fully healed.

We were on her couch, her legs tucked beneath her, scrolling through a wedding Pinterest board. She turned her phone toward me, her eyes glowing. “Isn’t this perfect? Can’t you see it for us?”

Us. I wanted to share her excitement, but all I heard was the echo of my past. Eleven years ago, I’d felt that same certainty, planned that same future—until it fell apart. She left me with an unused ring and a heart I wasn’t sure would ever recover.