All I wanted was my fantasy wedding, and I got it. I paid for everything—venue, flowers, photographer. My parents helped, but today? It was my. So I didn’t become upset when my new husband did what he did at the reception in front of everyone. I rose up and left silently. never looked back. Because infidelity before the honeymoon invalidates certain vows.
Lucas and I dated for three years. We were flawed lovers, but we loved one other. We enjoyed morning treks, weekend breakfasts, and old noir flicks. We clashed severely when we did.
His love of pranks causes the most stress.
He found them humorous. They were childish and harsh. I ignored it repeatedly. I told me love requires compromise. For stability, I could tolerate another foolish “gotcha” video or chuckle at his expensive jokes.
So I swallowed my pain. Bite tongue. Had a role.
I took charge after we were engaged. Planning, budgeting, vendors—I handled everything. My parents assisted, but largely I did. The Lucas contributions? Sometimes saying, “Whatever you think is fine,” and sending out half the invites late.
Still, I ignored it. I promised myself he’d show up when it mattered.
I felt my best on wedding day. The side braid I spent months preparing was pearl-pinned by my mom. I wore delicate, traditional makeup for me, not social media, to feel attractive. If I looked flawless, Lucas could notice how hard I tried for us.
The ceremony was nice and intimate. I cried throughout our vows, Lucas didn’t. He grinned like he meant it, and for a second, I thought we were official.
The reception followed.
Champagne flowed. The music grew. The garden was full with laughter. I spoke with relatives, shot blurry photos with my college roommates, and had a fantastic day.
I lighted up around cake time. I choose the three-tiered buttercream cake to the final piped flower. On its release, everyone cheered and clapped.
“Let the bride cut the first slice!” said someone.
Stepping forward, I smiled. Just as I reached for the knife, I felt it.
A forceful rear push.
My face hit the cake before I could absorb it.
Buttercream flooded my nostrils, and I gasped. Frosting covered my lashes. Hard to see. My veil adhered to the sweet mess, my makeup was destroyed, and my chest heaved in amazement. I heard astonished stillness for a time.
Laughter followed.
Louder laughter as Lucas walked closer, beaming like a youngster who had just committed the best trick.
“Come on!” he laughed, shoving my elbow. It’s a joke. Come on, Jules!”
Turning slowly to him, my muscles shook with amazement. I informed him. Many times. No pranks. Not today. Not ever.
Especially not today.
I stood there soaked in icing, humiliated in front of everyone I cared about. Side-clenched hands. Cheek burns. Someone gave me a napkin without looking.
I rushed through the throng.
No idea where I was headed. I cared not. Tears, guilt, and bewilderment obscured my eyes. I halted when I noticed him—a catering staff member—standing at the exit with a silent empathy.
He seemed mid-20s, pleasant eyes, solid stance, unfazed by the pandemonium. Upon approaching, he asked no questions. After reaching inside his apron, he gave me a clean cloth napkin.
I silently accepted and wiped my face. Didn’t gaze. He said nothing. One nod said, You don’t have to remain here. You may skip this.
So I left.
Several hours later, I sat on our bed in my gown. My veil tore. Icing plastered my hair. No change, no movement, no speech.
Lucas entered, dropped his keys on the dresser, and looked at me.
He didn’t check on me.
He didn’t say sorry.
I seemed to bother him, so he sighed.
“You embarrassed me back there,” he murmured. Just couldn’t take a joke. God, you’re sensitive. I was trying to have fun.”
I watched him. I told you my prank feelings. “You promised not to pull anything.”
Rolling his eyes. “It was easy, Juliette. You survived.”
Then it struck me.
This guy m.0.cked my sentiments. He didn’t mind my public humiliation. His sole concern was that I didn’t perform as expected.
My divorce petition was submitted the following morning.
He didn’t beg. He didn’t fight. He was unfazed.
“Fine,” he shrugged. “I guess I don’t want to marry someone who can’t take a joke.”
My parents expected it. Yes, heartbroken. Not startled. They saw my dedication to that connection. I sacrificed alot.
Several weeks later, I vanished.
Got rid of our wedding photographs. Ignored calls. I skipped friend meals. Staying in my flat was like a bunker. I felt empty and couldn’t weep some days. Like I’d used all my emotional energy trying to make someone love me correctly.
Eventually, I appeared.
Little by little, I reclaimed my life. Again, I painted haphazardly and joyously. I walked around the neighborhood and made garlic-heavy dishes. Flowers were purchased for their color. My house was filled with things that fulfilled me again.
I received a message while scrolling through Facebook on a calm Friday night as repeats played.
“Hi. You probably forget me. I served at your wedding. I watched what occurred and wanted to say, “You didn’t deserve that.”
It was him. Waiter with lovely eyes and cloth napkin.
His name was Caleb.
Not knowing what to say. My simple response was “Thank you.” That matters more than you think.”
I expected nothing more.
He answered the following day. Again the next day. We started talking about literature, music, and childhood. Caleb studied clinical psychology and worked events to pay for school. His inquiries were insightful. He recalled specifics. When I said I started painting again, he said, “I hope it brings you back to yourself.”
Meet for coffee.
He remained silent. Calm. Still kind. I saw presence in his eyes, not pity.
Coffee became dinner. Long walks after dinner. Safe, unstaged bookshop dates with inside jokes and loving touches.
I told him the full thing while eating greasy carton takeout on his flat floor one night. From the first “harmless” prank to my buttercream face.
He took time to soothe me.
He gently touched my hand and whispered, “You deserved better than all of it.”
Years have passed. I celebrated my ninth anniversary with Caleb today.
Our little home has a yellow door. We grow tomatoes every spring despite our gardening incompetence. We watch vintage noir on rainy evenings. He now helps trauma survivors rebuild.
At times, while I’m in the kitchen with my sleeves up and music playing, Caleb will come up behind me, throw his arms around my waist, kiss my neck, and murmur, “You still look better than that cake.”
So I laugh.
Not for show.
But now I know what love feels like.
