28. Before the Altar
BEFORE THE ALTAR
The wedding is close enough that I can feel it whenever I stop moving.
It sits in my chest like a quiet pulse—steady, real, impossible to ignore.
People keep asking if I’m excited, and I am, but the excitement comes layered with something tighter.
Something that makes my stomach draw in whenever I think too far ahead.
I love Reid. That part is constant. The part I’m still learning how to hold is everything that comes after the ceremony.
I feel that most in the silent, in-between moments—like brushing my teeth in the morning or walking from my desk to the break room.
Every ordinary routine suddenly has a second track running underneath it, a soft whisper reminding me that nothing about life after this wedding will be “ordinary” anymore.
I’ll still be a mom, still an engineer, still the girl trying to balance too many things at once, but there’s another layer being added.
A new title. A new commitment. A new version of us I haven’t fully pictured yet.
The closer we get, the more I can feel the shift coming for all of us—me, Liam, and Reid.
At work, the day starts normally until I step into the break room.
A small cluster of cupcakes sits on the counter beside a card with my name on it.
There are a few coworkers gathered around, pretending they aren’t waiting to see my reaction.
Callie nudges me forward with a grin that says she’s been holding this in all morning.
It hits me harder than I expect—the sweetness of the gesture, the thought behind it, the way everyone tried to keep it light and casual even though I can tell they talked about it ahead of time.
For a second I just stand there, letting the surprise sink in, letting myself feel the way the moment softens the edges of my nerves.
It’s such a simple thing, but it pulls me out of my head long enough to actually breathe.
“We figured you deserved something before disappearing into wedding chaos,” she says.
I open the card. Everyone signed it—notes about wishing me luck, jokes about staying reachable, messages that feel personal in a way I didn’t expect. For a moment I forget how stretched thin I’ve been. I forget the lists, the timelines, the fear of choosing wrong. For a moment, I just feel seen.
“Thank you,” I say, and I mean it. “Really. This is… really nice.”
Eric passes by and taps the card lightly with the back of his hand. “You’ve earned it. And don’t worry—we’ll survive without you. Probably.”
“I leave you all for two days,” I say. “Maybe three.”
“Exactly,” he replies. “A terrifying amount of time.”
His teasing calms me. Maybe because it reminds me that my life here isn’t just work—it’s the relationships I’ve built, the people who know me as someone competent and reliable, not just the girl rushing between daycare pickups and late-night calls with a long-distance fiancé.
The joke settles well. The room warms a little.
I realize how much pride I feel in this space—how much I’ve built here that has nothing to do with Reid or being a mom. It’s mine. My work. My effort. My identity. And standing here, surrounded by coworkers who know who I am beyond my relationship, I feel the weight of that independence.
For a moment, I wonder how much of that identity will shift once I’m married—how much I’m ready for it to shift, and how much I want to keep as my own. It’s not doubt. It’s recognition. Marriage isn’t just love. It’s logistics and compromise and merging lives without losing yourself in the overlap.
On the drive home, the contrast follows me.
Career confidence in one hand, wedding nerves in the other.
Reid and I have survived so much, but marriage feels bigger than any milestone we’ve crossed.
It feels like changing the foundation under both our feet.
I’m ready, but readiness doesn’t erase the fear.
Traffic blurs past as my thoughts loop through practical questions—budgets, schedules, long-term plans—but the emotional questions linger louder. What will life look like when the ceremony is over? When the high fades and the day-to-day begins?
These thoughts come and go throughout the drive, tightening then easing, like waves I can’t fully predict.
When I walk through the door, the apartment looks the same as it always does—Liam’s toys scattered in predictable trails, the mail stacked unevenly on the counter, my shoes abandoned where I stepped out of them last night.
It’s normal and familiar, and yet nothing feels settled.
I set the card from my coworkers on the table. Tomorrow I’ll probably cry over it. Tonight I stare at it a little too long and wonder how I’m supposed to merge all the parts of myself without dropping something important. Tonight is supposed to be about joy. About anticipation.
About entering the final stretch before the wedding. I remind myself of that as I start dinner. I remind myself again as I pick up Liam from daycare and listen to him talk about pumpkins and costumes. I remind myself again when Mom asks if I need help with anything for the ceremony.
But underneath the reminders, the nerves stay. Not loud—just steady. A quiet awareness that the next few days will change everything, even the parts I haven’t figured out how to name yet.
Still, when Liam crawls into my lap after dinner and holds my face in his tiny hands, the pulse of fear dims. This is my family.
This is real. And tomorrow, the circle widens.
I take a slow breath, grounding myself in the moment.
The beginning of something doesn’t need to be perfect. It just needs to be honest.
And I am walking into this next chapter honestly—excited, scared, hopeful, and aware of how much stands to change.
The rest of the week hits fast. Wedding week feels like someone opened every tab in my brain and refused to close any of them.
Lists sit on the counter. My phone keeps buzzing with reminders I thought I snoozed.
Mom checks in every few hours, and even though she’s trying to help, the constant questions make my chest tighten.
Reid arrives home two days before the ceremony.
The moment he steps inside, Liam launches at him and forgets everything else.
I watch them from the doorway. Reid lifts him with one arm, bags still hanging off the other.
He looks tired. I’m tired too, but seeing him here calms something in me for a moment.
We sit at the table after Liam goes to bed. The house is quiet except for the hum of the refrigerator. Reid runs a hand through his hair before he speaks.
“We need to figure out where we stand on the living situation,” he says. “My counselor thinks I should start putting together internship applications. Some of them are out of state.”
I nod slowly. I’ve been waiting for this conversation, but not tonight. Still, I steady myself.
“I know you need to apply,” I say. “But moving for you means pulling Liam from daycare, leaving my job, and starting over somewhere I don’t have support.”
“I’m not asking you to uproot your whole life tomorrow,” he says. “But we should talk about what might happen after graduation.”
“We should,” I agree. “But everything feels like pressure right now. Work is stable. Liam is stable. And I don’t know how to walk away from that without feeling like I’m gambling with both of us.”
He watches me carefully. “You’re not wrong. I just don’t want to make plans without you. I’m trying to include you in all of it.”
“I appreciate that,” I say. “But sometimes it feels like your future has open doors everywhere. Mine has a path I’ve already started building.”
The air shifts between us—not angry, not sharp, but heavy with the realization that we are standing in two different frameworks. He reaches for my hand across the table.
“We’ll figure it out,” he says. “I know it feels unclear, but I’m not walking into this without considering you and Liam.”
I squeeze his fingers. “I believe you. I just need space to process it without rushing into decisions that impact all of us.”
The next afternoon, we meet with the coordinator for a quick ceremony check-in. Reid keeps rubbing the back of his neck while she talks through the order of events. I answer most of the questions because he looks dazed, and she politely doesn’t comment on it.
When we leave, Reid exhales hard. “Everything is moving fast,” he says.
“It is,” I answer. “But we’re close. We just have a few more things to finish.”
He nods, but the tension in his shoulders stays.
I know some of it is school pressure. Some of it is the wedding.
And some of it is the future we keep circling without landing on.
That evening, while we rehearse our vows at home, I feel the weight of them before the words even leave my mouth.
Reid watches me read mine out loud, expression soft but tight around the edges.
He looks happy. He also looks like he’s carrying an entire year of decisions on his back.
He clears his throat. “Do these sound okay?” he asks, holding out his paper.
“They sound honest,” I say. “Which is all we need.”
When he reads the lines aloud—lines about choosing each other, choosing stability for Liam, choosing to show up even when distance makes things hard—my chest tightens. Not because I doubt him, but because these vows aren’t promises of guaranteed ease. They’re promises to face uncertainty together.
After Liam is asleep, we stretch out on the couch. The TV is on, muted. Reid leans his head back and closes his eyes. I study his face, noticing the small lines of worry near his brow. He opens his eyes a moment later, watching me watch him.
“Are you okay?” he asks.
“I’m trying to be,” I say. “Some moments feel solid. Others… not.”
He sits up slightly. “If you’re having doubts?—”
“I’m not doubting us,” I interrupt. “I’m doubting how to shape a life where both of us can succeed without one of us losing something important.”