Three months after bu:rying my fiancé, I forced myself to work another wedding. Then I saw his mother slipping away from me, and her reaction immediately felt wrong.
Adrian and I were supposed to get married that summer.
By spring, almost everything had been arranged. The venue was booked. My dress was chosen.
We argued over cake flavors and laughed at how ridiculous the argument 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 remembered afterward.
Not the guest list. Not the flowers. Not the wedding plans.
I remembered his laugh, the way he leaned against the counter, and how certain I was that we had years ahead of us.
Then, six weeks before the wedding, Adrian died in a car accident.
No warning. No goodbye. No final 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 severe that we buried him in a closed casket.
At the funeral, I stood beside his mother, Colleen, holding her hand as Adrian was lowered into the ground.
She squeezed my fingers until they hurt.
Neither of us said much.
There was nothing useful to say.
Afterward, people approached me quietly.
They hugged me, told me Adrian loved me, and promised time would make things easier.
I nodded because I had no idea what else to do.
I believed that was the worst day of my life.
Three months later, I discovered I was wrong.
I’m a florist.
Before Adrian passed away, weddings were my favorite jobs.
I loved arriving before the guests, while the venue still looked unfinished, then watching an empty room turn into a celebration.
Flowers could completely change a space.
The right centerpiece could make a plain table romantic. Greenery and candlelight could soften a cold ballroom. A nervous bride could relax the moment someone handed her a bouquet.
After Adrian died, even looking at a bridal bouquet reminded me of the one I had chosen for myself.
So I stopped accepting weddings.
For weeks, I handled birthdays, corporate events, and sympathy arrangements instead.
Anything except weddings.
Even hearing the word “fiancé” made my stomach tighten.
Eventually, though, bills forced me back.
Grief did not stop rent, supplier invoices, or shop expenses.
So three months after Adrian’s funeral, I agreed to take wedding jobs again.
I told myself work might help.
That morning, another florist I sometimes worked with called in sick and asked me to cover a wedding.
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 stood beside the cooler. My assistant was already organizing deliveries.
Every instinct told me to refuse.
“I’ll do it,” I said.
A few hours later, I was arranging flowers at a reception venue I had never worked before when I noticed a familiar woman near the entrance.
Colleen.
For a second, I thought grief was playing another trick on me.
Then she turned.
It was definitely her.
I almost called out.
Then she saw me.
Her expression shifted—not into sadness or surprise, but something closer to fear.
She immediately turned and disappeared down a side hallway.
That made no sense.
Colleen and I had barely spoken since Adrian died, but why would she hide from me?
I followed.
“Colleen?”
She stopped and stared at me.
“Meredith?”
“What exactly are you doing here right now?”
She looked uneasy.
“I could ask you the same thing.”
“I’m working. I’m the florist.”
“Here?”
“Yes. Why?”
Before she could answer, a wedding coordinator rushed toward us.
“Ms. Colleen, we’ve been looking everywhere for you. The groom needs his mother.”
I stared at Colleen.
For a moment, everything seemed to make sense.
Adrian had an older brother, Julian.
Of course.
It had to be Julian’s wedding.
Julian and I had always gotten along. He was quieter than Adrian, but kind. At family gatherings, he was usually the one helping me carry dishes while everyone else argued over football.
I won’t pretend it didn’t hurt that I wasn’t invited.
But after Adrian’s death, I had barely spoken to his family.
Maybe they assumed a wedding would hurt too much.
Maybe Julian thought watching him stand at an altar would remind me of everything I had lost.
I tried not to take it personally.
Then I noticed Colleen’s corsage.
I had made it that morning.
It belonged to the groom’s mother.
Colleen glanced at me, then hurried after the coordinator.
I watched her go.
Something still felt wrong.
I told myself she was simply uncomfortable seeing me.
Maybe she thought I would be upset.
Maybe she felt guilty that Julian was marrying only three months after Adrian’s funeral.
I forced myself back to work.
The arrangements needed finishing. Candles had to be placed. The ceremony flowers needed one final check.
A few minutes later, I saw Colleen near the groom’s room.
This time, I almost ignored it.
Of course she was there. Her son was getting married.
Still, the way she moved bothered me.
She checked the hallway before slipping inside.
Then I heard Colleen’s voice.
“You need to hurry. The ceremony starts in 20 minutes.”
A man answered.
I froze.
That wasn’t Julian’s voice.
But I knew it.
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 partly open door.
Colleen stood inside.
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 noticed me.
My heart was pounding hard enough to hear.
Three months earlier, I had stood at Adrian’s funeral believing I would never hear his voice again.
Now he was alive.
His mother knew.
And both of them had let me mourn him.
I turned and ran.
I barely reached the restroom before I started crying.
I locked the door and cried until breathing hurt.
Then my phone rang. My assistant was calling.
“Meredith? The coordinator’s looking for you. They’re about to start.”
I stared into the mirror.
My eyes were swollen. My mascara had streaked.
“Meredith? Are you okay?”
“No.”
“Do you want me to take over?”
I thought about Adrian.
Alive. Smiling.
Preparing for another wedding while I had spent three months grieving him.
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
