The wedding was weeks away, and the DIY stress was real. We’d booked a sweet little white church on the outskirts of Denver with white wooden pews and stained‑glass windows. The reception was just next door at the community center. Barbecue from Mason’s favorite local restaurant, a modest grocery‑store cake. It was all simple, heartfelt, perfectly us.

Mason built our arch from reclaimed wood. I made the wildflower centerpieces. Everything was exactly what we wanted. But the guest list had shrunk painfully. My parents’ absence meant my entire side of the church would be almost empty—just a few college friends and my sweet, elderly Aunt Margaret. The thought of walking down that aisle and seeing mostly empty pews made my chest ache.

“Maybe we should postpone,” I whispered. “Save more money. Try to fix things with my parents.”

Mason’s voice was firm. “Ella, look at me.”

I met his gaze.