I was twenty-eight when I married the man I had known almost my entire life.
We didn’t have a big wedding. No ballroom, no orchestra, no extravagant flowers. Just a small rented hall, a few close friends, and a homemade cake one of our classmates insisted on baking.
But to me, it was perfect.
Because I wasn’t just marrying the man I loved.
I was marrying the boy who had once sat beside me on the cracked playground bench of an orphanage and promised, “One day we’ll build our own home.”
And somehow… we had.
For illustrative purposes only
