Neither of us said much.
There wasn’t anything useful to say.
People kept coming up to me afterward, quietly.
They hugged me, told me Adrian loved me, and promised that time would make things easier.
I nodded because I didn’t know what else to do.
I thought that was the worst day of my life.
Three months later, I learned I was wrong.
I’m a florist.
Before Adrian died, weddings had always been my favorite jobs.
I loved arriving before the guests, when venues still felt unfinished. I loved watching empty rooms slowly become celebrations.
Flowers could change everything.
A plain table became romantic with the right centerpiece.
A cold ballroom became warm with greenery and candlelight. A nervous bride could relax the second someone placed a bouquet in her hands.
After Adrian died, I couldn’t even look at a bridal bouquet without thinking about the one I’d chosen for myself.
I stopped accepting weddings.
For weeks, I handled birthdays, corporate events, and sympathy arrangements instead.
Anything but weddings.
Even hearing someone say the word “fiancé” could make my stomach tighten.
But eventually, I had bills to pay.
Grief did not stop rent from being due.
It didn’t pay suppliers or keep my shop running.
So three months after his funeral, I finally agreed to start taking wedding jobs again.
I told myself work might help.
That morning, another florist I sometimes worked with called in sick and asked if I could cover a wedding for her.
She sounded miserable.
“I know it’s last minute,” she said. “I wouldn’t ask unless I really needed you.”
I looked around my shop.
Buckets of roses sat near the cooler.
My assistant was already organizing deliveries.
Every part of me wanted to say no.
“I’ll do it,” I said.
