We had mismatched plates for almost a year.
There were months when one unexpected expense meant eating pasta for a week.
Sarah never seemed embarrassed by any of it.
We'd sit on our secondhand couch drinking five-dollar wine and talk about the future.
A house.
Travel.
Careers.
Maybe children.
Sarah wanted two.
I wanted three.
We compromised on "we'll figure it out."
Those years weren't glamorous.
They were happy.
At least I believed they were.
When Sarah's mother had surgery, I took time off work and drove Sarah four hours so she could stay with her family.
When my father lost his job unexpectedly, Sarah spent an entire evening helping me update his resume.
When Sarah struggled with anxiety during her first big campaign at work, I stayed awake with her while she practiced the presentation.
When I got promoted for the first time, she showed up at my office carrying a ridiculous balloon that said BIG MONEY MAN.
I was embarrassed.
I loved it.
We weren't perfect.
We argued about dishes.
Money.
Whether we spent too much time with my family.
Whether she spent too much money ordering food.
Whether I worked too much.
Whether she was too impulsive.
But the arguments always ended.
We apologized.
We moved on.
At least, that was how it used to work.
I proposed during our fifth year together.
Nothing dramatic.
No stadium.
No photographer hiding behind a tree.
I took Sarah back to the coffee shop where we'd met.
The place had been remodeled, but the corner where our table used to sit was still there.
I asked the manager ahead of time if I could reserve it for thirty minutes.
Sarah thought we were meeting friends.
Instead, I gave her a small photo album.
Inside were pictures from our five years together.
College.
Graduation.
Our first apartment.
Vacations.
Christmas.
Birthdays.
The final page was blank except for one sentence.
Ready for the next chapter?
When she looked up, I was holding the ring.
Sarah cried before I even asked.
"Yes."
I laughed.
"I haven't asked yet."
"Then hurry up."
I proposed.
She said yes again.
For the first several months after the engagement, everything felt right.
Our families celebrated.
Sarah's mother immediately began talking about flowers.
My mother cried every time someone mentioned the wedding.
Sarah created spreadsheets for vendors.
I created spreadsheets for the budget.
We argued about who had the better spreadsheets.
The venue was a renovated farmhouse about forty minutes outside the city.
Sarah loved it because it had hanging lights, old oak trees, and a wide outdoor ceremony area.
I loved it because the price included tables and chairs.
She called me boring.
I called myself financially responsible.
We booked it.
Deposit paid.
Then the photographer.
Caterer.
DJ.
Florist.
Save-the-dates.
There was a corkboard hanging above the small desk in our apartment.
Over time, that board became our wedding headquarters.
Fabric samples.
Vendor cards.
A seating chart draft.
Photographs.
The honeymoon itinerary.
Reservation numbers.
A handwritten list titled THINGS WE WILL DEFINITELY FORGET.
Sarah decorated the edges with little photographs of places we wanted to visit.
I used to walk past that corkboard every morning before work.
It represented the future.
Six months before the wedding, the first real cracks became visible.
At the time, I didn't recognize them for what they were.
Wedding planning is stressful.
Everyone says that.
So, when Sarah became more impatient, I assumed it was normal.
She began snapping at small things.
I was working later because I'd recently received another promotion.
The new role paid considerably more, but it also came with extra responsibility.
We had agreed the higher income would help cover wedding expenses and allow us to start saving for a house.
One Thursday, I came home around nine.
Sarah was on the couch.
She didn't look up when I entered.
"Hey."
Nothing.
I put my bag down.
"Everything okay?"
"Fine."
It clearly wasn't.
I sat beside her.
"What happened?"