My fiancé, Julian, had only spoken to my father through awkward video calls while we lived in Europe. The timing was always wrong. Bad internet. Frozen screens. Half-finished conversations.
They had never truly seen each other clearly.
When we finally returned home for the wedding, Dad got sick and missed the rehearsal dinner.
“I’ll see him tomorrow,” he told me over the phone, his voice rough with fever. “When I walk you down the aisle. That’s the proper way.”
At the time, it sounded sweet.
The next morning, I stood beside him at the church entrance, trying not to cry before the ceremony even began. My bouquet trembled in my hands. My father’s arm felt unusually stiff beneath my fingers.
Then the doors opened.
The music swelled. White roses lined the aisle. Candles flickered under the stained glass.
And Julian stood waiting at the altar.