People applauded, awkwardly at first, then more steadily, a step, a pause, a laugh between us. The room blurred. I felt only his hand in mine, the weight of his trust.
My mother was standing on the edge, openly crying.
Let them watch.
When the song ended, Rowan collapsed into his chair, breathless but smiling.
"Was it good enough?" he whispered, his voice raw.
I knelt down beside him. "That was all."
"I was wrong," she said in a low voice. "And I almost made you doubt something real." Her voice broke. "I'm so sorry, Mikayla."
He nodded, and I saw relief on his face.
Later, after everyone had left, Rowan and I sat on our bed, shoes on, wedding clothes wrinkled.
"That was all."
He looked at me, serious. "Are you still happy you married me?"
I laughed. "Ask me tomorrow. And the next day. And every day after that."
He kissed my forehead. "Deal."
In the months that followed, we learned to fight for each other in a hundred little ways: doctor's appointments, awkward glances, difficult days.
Because love is not about lack.
It's about knowing who continues to show up, even when it hurts.
He showed up. I did too. And that was enough.
"Are you still happy you married me?"
