Love stories aren’t supposed to end the night before the wedding—but mine did. My fiancé shattered our future with five words: “I can’t marry you.” Days later, I learned the cruelest truth—he had replaced me. Jerry and I met as kids, growing up with scraped knees and endless summers. Friendship turned into love, though we never spoke of it—until senior year. At homecoming, under cheap streamers, he extended his hand. “Dance with me, Bridget?” That night, I knew I loved him.
Through college, we were each other’s rock. When he got into business school, I helped him pack. When I landed my first job, he brought champagne. Then, one random Tuesday, he knelt in our kitchen. “I’ve loved you for as long as I can remember,” he said, voice shaking. “Will you marry me?” I said yes before he finished asking.
Eight months of planning followed—cakes, flowers, invitations. My mother cried over my dress. My father practiced his speech for months.
And then, the call. No explanations, no hesitation. Just an ending I never saw coming.
