I had imagined my wedding day so many times that the morning felt strangely familiar, as if I had already lived it in dreams.
I was standing at the altar with a bouquet trembling lightly in my hands, trying to keep my smile soft and steady. The flowers were white roses and pale blush peonies, exactly what I had picked months before.
The church was glowing with candlelight.
The late afternoon sun spilled through stained glass, turning everything gold.
My mother sat in the front row, dabbing at her eyes every few seconds. My father looked proud in the way only fathers do when they are trying not to cry in public.
Friends, cousins, and relatives filled the pews, all of them watching Ian and me like we were the last scene of a love story everyone had already rooted for.