Then:
We need to talk when I get home.
I didn't respond.
When I entered our apartment, the wedding corkboard was the first thing I saw.
Amalfi Coast photographs.
Venue contact information.
A checklist.
Sarah's handwriting.
FINAL GUEST COUNT.
For several minutes, I stood looking at it.
Then I removed everything.
Not angrily.
One piece at a time.
I placed all Sarah's wedding notes into a folder.
My contracts went into another.
Then I opened a spreadsheet.
The same kind Sarah mocked me for making.
I listed every wedding vendor.
Venue.
Photographer.
Caterer.
Florist.
DJ.
Cake.
Transportation.
Hotel block.
Invitations.
I added cancellation policies.
Deposits.
Deadlines.
By midnight, I knew exactly how much money we'd lose.
It was significant.
But not catastrophic.
I slept on the couch because I couldn't bring myself to enter our bedroom.
Sarah never came home.
Around one in the morning she texted:
I'm staying with a friend. We both need space.
Friend.
I knew who she meant.
The next morning, I began dismantling the wedding.
First the venue.
"Hi, this is Alex Carter. We have a wedding scheduled for October."
The coordinator sounded cheerful.
"Yes, of course. How can I help?"
"I need to cancel."
Silence.
"I'm sorry?"
"The wedding isn't happening."
Her voice softened immediately.
"I'm so sorry."
"Thank you."
She explained the deposit.
We'd lose part.
I didn't care.
Then the photographer.
Then catering.
Then DJ.
Every call removed one piece of the future.
The florist asked whether we wanted to reschedule.
"No."
"Are you sure?"
"Very."
The invitation designer hadn't begun printing yet.
That saved some money.
Small victory.
Around noon, I called my parents.
My mother answered.
"Hey, honey."
"Mom."
She heard it immediately.
"What's wrong?"
I sat at the kitchen table.
"Sarah and I aren't getting married."
Silence.
"What happened?"
"She met someone."
My mother's breathing changed.
"Oh, Alex."
"It's done."
"Where are you?"
"Home."
"Do you want me to come over?"
"No."
"Are you sure?"
"Yeah."
I knew if she came, I'd probably break.
At that moment, logistics were keeping me functional.
"I just wanted you and Dad to know before anyone else called."
"What did she do?"
I closed my eyes.
"Mom."
"What?"
"I don't want to talk about details."
"Did she cheat?"
I didn't answer.
My mother whispered, "Oh, honey."
That nearly did it.
I swallowed.
"I'm okay."
"No, you're not."
"I will be."
My father called thirty minutes later.
He didn't ask details.
He said, "You need anything?"
"No."
"Money?"
"No."
"Place to stay?"