Warren was home on a short leave, and there was no time for the wedding we had once imagined. My parents moved the patio furniture into the backyard, my mother borrowed white tablecloths from our church, and my aunt made a cake that leaned slightly to one side.
There were fewer than thirty people there.
I wore a simple cream dress.
Warren wore his uniform.
And when he slipped the ring onto my finger, his hand shook so badly that I whispered, “Are you trying to drop it so you can change your mind?”
He smiled.
“Too late. Your mother already fed me.”
That was Warren. He could make me laugh when I wanted to cry.
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