I grounded some of her impulsiveness.
She convinced me to take weekend trips without planning every meal first.
I taught her how to build an emergency fund.
She introduced me to restaurants I would never have entered alone.
I helped her negotiate a salary increase.
She could spend twenty minutes choosing wine.
I could spend twenty minutes choosing travel insurance.
It worked.
After eighteen months, we moved into a two-bedroom apartment near the Turia gardens.
The rental contract was primarily under my name because my employment history and income made approval simpler, but Lara was registered as an occupant and paid an agreed share of household expenses.
We did not split everything exactly in half.
My salary was higher.
I contributed more.
That never bothered me.
I believed equal did not always mean identical.
Then I proposed.
Nothing elaborate.
No photographer hiding behind a tree.
No violinist.
We were in Peñíscola for a weekend.
Sunset.
Old walls.
Ocean.
I had the ring in my pocket for almost six hours because I kept waiting for the right moment and then realized the right moment was becoming an excuse.
So I asked her beside the hotel balcony.
Lara cried.
I cried a little too.
She said yes before I finished the question.
For the first few weeks, being engaged made everything feel lighter.
Then wedding planning began.
Our guest list settled around seventy.
Not huge.
Not tiny.
We wanted early summer.
A renovated countryside venue outside Valencia.
Outdoor ceremony.
Dinner inside.
DJ afterward.
The first budget we agreed on was €21,000.
That was already more than I had ever imagined spending on one day.
I could manage it without debt if we remained disciplined.
That sentence became important.
If we remained disciplined.
Lara wanted the wedding to look expensive without admitting we were spending expensive money.
There was always one more upgrade.
The first photographer was “too documentary.”
The second had the right “editorial feeling” but cost €1,300 more.
The standard chairs were “conference chairs.”
The upgraded chairs were apparently capable of marriage.
The basic flowers looked “sad.”
The premium arrangement was “romantic but modern.”
Paper invitations were not enough.
They needed thicker paper.
Not merely thick.
“Luxury weight.”
I did not know paper had social classes.
Lara did.
Every upgrade sounded small alone.
€300 here.
€450 there.
€700 for lighting.
€600 for linens.
€900 difference on the bar package.
My spreadsheet began looking less like a wedding plan and more like a government project that had lost oversight.
I raised it one evening.
“We’re almost four thousand over.”
Lara kept scrolling through centerpiece photographs.
“We’ll adjust.”
“Where?”
“We can save somewhere else.”
“Where?”
“We don’t need to decide tonight.”
That usually meant the expensive item stayed.
My company was short-staffed.
Overtime was practically unlimited.
I started taking extra hours.
Two evenings a week.
Some Saturdays.
I told myself it was temporary.
A few months.
The wedding would happen.
Life would return to normal.
Lara said she appreciated me.
But increasingly, I felt she appreciated the money the overtime produced more than the overtime itself.
Friday afternoon, I would get paid.
Friday evening, she would ask:
“How much extra did you make?”
Then:
“Perfect, because I found this amazing lighting package.”
Or:
“The cake tasting place we booked is too basic.”
Or:
“Bea said we absolutely need a photo booth.”
Once, I hesitated over €800 worth of upgraded glassware.
Lara rolled her eyes.
“Matteo, stop acting poor.”
I stared at her.
“What?”
“You know what I mean.”
“No.”
“We are getting married once.”