“And you think those things make someone less worthy?”
“I think,” he answered carefully, “that you’re making the biggest mistake of your life.”
“Because he’s poor?”
“Because he can’t give you what I can.”
I smiled sadly.
“There it is.”
“What?”
“You still think love is a competition.”
His jaw tightened.
“I think you’re trying to prove something.”
“No.”
“You want to upset your parents.”
“No.”
“You want revenge because I wasn’t ready to propose.”
“No.”
“Then explain it.”
I met his eyes without blinking.
“I’m choosing the only man who has never tried to choose for me.”
For the first time since I’d known him, Victor had no immediate response.
I gently closed the jewelry box.
Then I placed it back into his hands.
“You should go.”
His voice dropped.
“When reality catches up with you, don’t expect me to still be waiting.”
“I never asked you to.”
I opened the apartment door.
He hesitated for only a second before walking past me.
Just before leaving, he looked over his shoulder.
“You’ll regret homemade cider when everyone else is drinking champagne.”
I smiled.
“I don’t even like champagne.”
The door clicked shut.
I leaned against it, listening to his footsteps disappear down the hallway.
Instead of feeling uncertain…
I felt lighter than I had in months.
Three weeks later, I married Ethan.
There were no crystal chandeliers.
No luxury hotel.
No orchestra dressed in black tuxedos.
Instead, the ceremony took place beneath towering oak trees overlooking fields that had belonged to Ethan’s family for generations.
The reception was held inside the old red barn where he’d spent half his childhood helping his grandfather stack hay.
Neighbors arrived carrying casseroles, fresh bread, roasted vegetables, homemade pies, and enough potato salad to feed an army.
Everyone argued cheerfully over whose recipe tasted best.
Children chased each other between hay bales while dogs wandered happily through the crowd hoping someone would drop food.
Someone hung strings of warm white lights across the wooden beams overhead.
As evening settled over the farm, the entire barn glowed with soft golden light.
It wasn’t perfect.
It was better.
It felt alive.
Our wedding cake wasn’t made by a celebrity baker.
It had been lovingly baked by Eleanor, the woman who had been Ethan’s grandmother Rose’s closest friend for nearly fifty years.
“I promised Rose I’d bake his wedding cake one day,” Eleanor whispered while wiping away tears.
“I just wish she’d lived long enough to see today.”
Ethan squeezed my hand.
“I know she’d be here if she could.”
Instead of champagne, everyone raised mason jars filled with homemade apple cider pressed from the orchard behind the farmhouse.
Someone shouted a toast.
Laughter echoed through the barn.
For the first time in years, I wasn’t worried about saying the right thing or impressing the right people.
I simply existed.
And that was enough.
Still…
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