“You look like you’re having a rough Monday,” he said, gesturing to the stack of work files I’d scattered across my table.
“Try a rough month,” I laughed, and somehow that simple exchange turned into three hours of talking about everything and nothing. The world outside the café seemed to disappear as we sat there.
He’d leave little notes in my car after dates and show up at my apartment with takeout when I worked late.
During our second year together, he proposed at that same coffee shop, getting down on one knee right where we’d first met. I remember the entire place going quiet, like strangers were holding their breath for me.
“Anna,” he said, his hands shaking as he held out the ring, “I want to build a life with you. I want to wake up next to you for the next 50 years.”
Of course, I said yes.
How could I not? We were so in love, so sure we were meant to be together forever.
After we married, everything felt perfect. We bought our little house in Maplewood with the white picket fence and the big oak tree in the backyard. It was the exact picture I’d once sketched in the margins of my notebooks.
Brandon got promoted to regional manager, while I kept working at the marketing firm downtown.
We talked about starting a family, and about painting the spare room yellow for a nursery.
When Lily was born five years ago, I thought we’d reached the peak of happiness. Brandon cried when he held her for the first time.
He whispered to her tiny face, “Daddy’s going to take care of you and Mommy forever.” I believed him with every fiber of my being, unaware that he would break his promise a few years later.
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