I smiled through all of it, liking the appropriate posts and leaving the appropriate comments, even though my chest felt tight every single time I saw another announcement celebrating her big day.
But eight months ago, I got married too.
My wedding was smaller than Brooke’s would be, more intimate, but it was meaningful to me in every possible way. I married Owen, a kind and steady man who works as an architect at a respected firm downtown. We’d been together for four years, building a life and a partnership that felt solid and real. When he proposed to me on a quiet evening in our favorite park, I felt like the luckiest woman alive.
I sent out invitations to my family six weeks in advance, giving them plenty of time to make whatever arrangements they needed. I called my parents personally to make sure they knew the date and time, to confirm they’d received their invitations, to answer any questions they might have had. I even offered to help with travel arrangements if they needed assistance, though they only lived thirty minutes away from the venue I’d chosen.
Nobody came.
