Whenever I see a happy wedding on TV, I grieve the wedding I never had because my first and only wedding (so far) was not raucously happy. There was no dancing, no elaborate toasts or customized vows, and only 24 guests. I didn’t even get to invite my boss, whose home we had both visited for many Christmases. None of our close friends got to attend either because we married in the US, not back home.
My ex didn’t want any “luxuries” or an extensive guest list because his parents weren’t at our wedding. After all, they didn’t approve of our interracial marriage.
There’s only so much you can ask a man without feeling like you’re forcing things on him. He was already sandwiched between his parents and me. So, I made sure the decor, my dress, the food, our photographs, his tux, our rings, the venue, the cake, and the playlist were to my liking.
Not that I had dreamed of my wedding as a little girl. But whatever I had imagined for myself subconsciously was different from my wedding day. As a teenager, I had developed quite the disdain for soppy affairs. But tell me, who doesn’t want the groom to cry when he first sees you in your wedding dress?
That night, I got a severe flu. Yes, the hotel room was a bit colder, but I guess my body already knew I’d made a not-so-ideal choice by getting into a marriage that had the world stacked against it. My body was bracing for all the challenges she anticipated. I’m sorry I didn’t listen. I didn’t know how to.
