I was thrilled to finally share my wedding invitations — complete with a photo of my fiancé and me — with my three closest friends. But instead of excitement, I got silence. Then they all backed out, one by one, with flimsy excuses.
Something was wrong… and I was about to find out what it was.
At 38, I had finally gotten engaged. It was something I’d nearly given up on, something I’d joked about with my friends over too many glasses of wine.
“I’ll just get a dog instead,” I’d say, and they’d laugh because they knew the truth hidden behind my smile — that I wanted what they all had.
But then I met Will.
Will with his crooked smile and his kind eyes. Will, who made me believe that love wasn’t just for everyone else; it was for me, too.
“You know what I love about you?” he asked me the night he proposed.
We were sitting on the balcony of his apartment, looking out at the city lights.
“You never gave up on happiness.
Even when you thought you’d never find me, you still lived your life with hope.”
I laughed, the diamond on my finger catching the moonlight.
“That’s not true. I was ready to become a crazy dog lady.”
“No,” he said, his voice soft but certain.
“You kept your heart open. That’s braver than most people ever are.”
Maybe he was right.
Or maybe I was just lucky.
Either way, at 38, I had finally found my person.
The first people I told were Emma, Rachel, and Tara.
We’d been best friends since college, through everything: heartbreaks, career milestones, marriages, children.
We’d made a pact to stay close no matter what, and we had.
I called them on a four-way video chat, my hands shaking as I held up my ring finger to the camera.
“Oh, my God!” Rachel screamed, her curled hair bouncing as she jumped up and down.
“It’s happening!
It’s finally happening!”
“Show us again!” Emma demanded, her face taking up most of the screen as she leaned closer.
“I can’t believe it,” Tara said, wiping away tears. “Our Lucy is getting married.”
They hadn’t met Will yet. Between distance and life responsibilities, it just hadn’t happened.
But they knew everything about him — how we’d met at a secondhand bookstore, both reaching for the same dog-eared copy of “To Kill a Mockingbird,” and how he’d taken me on our first date to a tiny restaurant where the chef knew his name.
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
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