Some people think the biggest test of love is making it to the altar. I learned that sometimes the real test begins long before the wedding march ever starts.
The rain came down in silver sheets the morning I met Ryan, who was two years my senior. I was 23, a first-year grad student making my way to freshman orientation. I was soaked through my cheap blazer and clutching a campus map that had turned to pulp in my hands.
Then a green umbrella appeared over my head, and a boy with kind eyes told me I looked like I needed coffee more than directions.
