PART 1
For almost a year, my fiancé and I had planned our wedding together. My father had already paid for everything—the venue, flowers, dress, catering for 120 guests. Invitations were sent, relatives had booked flights, and my mother had cried during my final dress fitting.
Then the doctor said the word that changed everything.
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Terminal.
I still remember sitting in that cold white room, holding my fiancé’s hand and expecting him to hold mine tighter.
But two days later, he stood in our kitchen with swollen eyes and a packed bag by the door.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I can’t do this.”
At first, I thought he meant the illness.
Then I realized he meant me.
He left before the wedding, before my condition got worse, before life became harder. Suddenly, I was a woman facing the end of my life with a wedding dress, a paid venue, and no groom.
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