“My fiancé abandoned me after my terminal diagnosis — so I hired a man to stand beside me at the altar as my final wish. For almost a year, my fiancé helped me plan our wedding. My father had already paid for everything: the venue, flowers, dress, catering for 120 guests. Invitations were mailed, relatives had booked flights, and my mother had cried during my last dress fitting.
Then the doctor said the word that split my life in two: terminal.
I remember sitting in that cold white room, gripping my fiancé’s hand so hard my fingers hurt. I expected him to hold on tighter.
Instead, two days later, he stood in our kitchen with red eyes and a packed bag by the door.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I can’t do this.”
At first, I thought he meant the illness.
