I thought I knew everything about Clara—the woman I was ready to spend forever with. She had this steady, calming energy that could quiet any storm. We met in a secondhand bookstore, connected over a worn copy of Murakami, and built a life of quiet rituals and deep, easy love. After two years of laughter and shared dreams, I proposed. As we planned our wedding, she often spoke fondly of her grandparents, and I couldn’t wait to meet the people who had shaped her so dearly.
At our rehearsal dinner, Clara stepped out to take a call just as her grandparents arrived. The moment they walked through the door, my chest tightened. Tim and Hanna. Courteous smiles, pearls, a pressed vest—and a memory I’d spent decades trying to bury. They were the couple from that day—the accident that took my parents when I was eight. I remembered their faces, pale and trembling amid the wreckage, the sound of sirens, the smell of burning rubber.
When Clara came back and found me standing there, silent, she looked confused. I couldn’t find the words to explain—only the strength to whisper, “I can’t marry you.”