Three months after burying my fiancé, I forced myself to work another wedding. Then I saw his mother slipping away from me, and her reaction made no sense.
Adrian and I were supposed to get married that summer.
By spring, almost everything was ready. We’d already booked the venue. I’d chosen my dress.
We argued over cake flavors and laughed at how ridiculous we sounded.
He wanted chocolate.
I wanted lemon.
“We’re seriously fighting over cake now?” Adrian asked one night, staring at me across our kitchen table.
“We’re not fighting,” I said. “I’m explaining why you’re wrong.”
He laughed so hard he nearly spilled his coffee.
Those were the moments I kept returning to later.
Not the big plans. Not the guest list or the flowers.
I remembered his laugh, the way he leaned against the counter, and how certain I had been that we had years ahead of us.
Then, six weeks before our wedding, Adrian died in a car accident.
There was no warning. No final conversation. No chance to say anything important.
One day, I was deciding where to seat his difficult uncle.
The next, I was identifying Adrian’s belongings.
The crash was so bad that we buried him in a closed casket.
I remember standing beside his mother, Colleen, at the funeral, holding her hand while they lowered Adrian into the ground.
She squeezed my fingers so hard they hurt.
Neither of us said much.
There wasn’t anything useful to say.
People kept coming up to me afterward, quietly.
They hugged me, told me Adrian loved me, and promised that time would make things easier.
I nodded because I didn’t know what else to do.
I thought that was the worst day of my life.
Three months later, I learned I was wrong.
I’m a florist.
Before Adrian died, weddings had always been my favorite jobs.
I loved arriving before the guests, when venues still felt unfinished. I loved watching empty rooms slowly become celebrations.
Flowers could change everything.
A plain table became romantic with the right centerpiece.
A cold ballroom became warm with greenery and candlelight. A nervous bride could relax the second someone placed a bouquet in her hands.
After Adrian died, I couldn’t even look at a bridal bouquet without thinking about the one I’d chosen for myself.
I stopped accepting weddings.
For weeks, I handled birthdays, corporate events, and sympathy arrangements instead.
Anything but weddings.
Even hearing someone say the word “fiancé” could make my stomach tighten.
But eventually, I had bills to pay.
Grief did not stop rent from being due.
It didn’t pay suppliers or keep my shop running.
So three months after his funeral, I finally agreed to start taking wedding jobs again.
I told myself work might help.
That morning, another florist I sometimes worked with called in sick and asked if I could cover a wedding for her.
She sounded miserable.
“I know it’s last minute,” she said. “I wouldn’t ask unless I really needed you.”
I looked around my shop.
Buckets of roses sat near the cooler.
My assistant was already organizing deliveries.
Every part of me wanted to say no.
“I’ll do it,” I said.
A few hours later, I was arranging flowers at a reception venue I’d never worked at before when I saw a familiar woman near the entrance.
Colleen.
For a second, I thought grief was playing another trick on me.
Then she turned slightly.
It was definitely her.
I almost called out to her.
Then she saw me.
Her expression shifted from neither sadness nor surprise into something resembling fear.
She immediately turned away and disappeared down a side hallway.
That was strange.
Colleen and I hadn’t spoken much since Adrian died, but why would she hide from me?
I followed her.
“Colleen?”
She stopped.
For a second, she just stared at me.
“Meredith?”
“What exactly are you doing here right now?”
She looked nervous.
“I could ask you the same thing.”
“I’m working. I’m the florist.”
“Here?”
“Yes. Why?”
Before she could answer, a wedding coordinator hurried toward us.
“Ms. Colleen, we’ve been looking everywhere for you. The groom needs his mother.”
I stared at Colleen.
For a moment, that seemed to explain everything.
Adrian had an older brother, Julian.
Of course.
This must be his wedding.
Julian and I had always gotten along well.
He had been quieter than Adrian, but he was kind to me.
At holidays, he was usually the person helping me carry dishes into the kitchen while everyone else argued over football.
I won’t lie — it hurt a little that he hadn’t invited me.
But after Adrian’s death, I’d barely spoken to his family.
Maybe they thought a wedding would be too painful for me.
Maybe Julian had decided that seeing him stand at an altar would remind me too much of everything I’d lost.
I tried not to take it personally.
Then I noticed the corsage on her wrist.
I’d made it myself that morning.
It was for the groom’s mother.
Colleen glanced at me, then quickly followed the coordinator away.
I watched her leave.
Something still felt wrong.
I told myself that explained her strange behavior.
Maybe she’d simply felt awkward seeing me here.
Maybe she thought I would be upset.
Maybe she felt guilty that Julian was getting married only three months after Adrian’s funeral.
I forced myself back to work.
There were arrangements to finish. Candles had to be placed. The ceremony flowers needed one final check.
A few minutes later, I spotted her near the groom’s room.
This time, I almost walked away.
Of course she was there. Her son was getting married.
Still, something about the way she moved bothered me.
She looked around before slipping inside.
Then I heard Colleen’s voice.
“You need to hurry. The ceremony starts in 20 minutes.”
A man answered.
I stopped.
That wasn’t Julian’s voice.
Something about it made my whole body go cold.
I had heard that voice half asleep in the morning.
I had heard it whisper beside me in movie theaters.
I had heard it arguing about cake.
But that was impossible.
I moved closer to the door.
Through the narrow opening, I could see Colleen.
Then the man stepped into view.
My hand flew to my mouth.
Adrian.
Alive.
And he was wearing the same suit he’d bought for our wedding.
I couldn’t move.
For one terrible second, my mind rejected what my eyes were showing me.
“Does everything look okay?” he asked.
Colleen adjusted his tie.
“You look perfect.”
Adrian smiled.
“Good. I don’t want anything going wrong today.”
I stumbled backward before either of them could see me.
My heart was pounding so hard that I could hear it.
Three months earlier, I’d stood at Adrian’s funeral believing I’d never hear his voice again.
Now he was alive.
His mother knew.
And they had both let me mourn him.
I turned and ran.
I barely made it to the restroom before the tears came.
I locked myself inside and cried until I could barely breathe.
My phone started ringing. It was my assistant.
“Meredith? The coordinator’s looking for you. They’re about to start.”
I looked at myself in the mirror.
My eyes were swollen.
My mascara was ruined.
“Meredith? Are you okay?”
“No.”
“Do you want me to take over?”
I thought about Adrian.
Alive. Smiling.
Getting ready for a wedding while I’d spent three months grieving him.
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
I wiped my face and picked up my florist badge.
And suddenly, I knew exactly what I was going to do next — and how I was going to make Adrian regret what he’d done to me.
I stood in front of the mirror for another few seconds.
My hands were still shaking.
Part of me wanted to leave.
Another part wanted to find Adrian and demand an explanation.
But somehow, neither option felt remotely possible anymore.
He had watched me bury him.
His mother had held my hand while I cried.
Someone had arranged a funeral.
Someone had put a coffin in the ground.
People had brought food to my apartment and sat beside me while I stared at walls.
Adrian had let all of that happen.
Now he was 20 minutes away from marrying someone else.
I washed the mascara from under my eyes and walked out of the restroom.
