The Snowfall Wedding – Part II: Behind the Kitchen Door

The Snowfall Wedding – Part II: Behind the Kitchen Door

The snow kept falling, soft and steady, as though the sky itself was blessing the ground. Outside, the cypress trees bowed heavy under white, and the children’s laughter carried faintly through the windows. Inside, though, another storm brewed.

Gary sat alone in his little office off the kitchen, glasses set aside on the desk, his elbows digging into the wood. His head was in his hands, his shoulders trembling. No one saw him like this — not the crew, not the guests, not even the kids. But I sensed him. I felt him.

I could feel his grief pour through the cord that ties us, like icy water and fire all at once. He turned the ring on his finger round and round, whispering my name, “Debs,” over and over, sometimes broken, sometimes pleading. I knew he was crying, even before I saw it in my mind’s eye — tears rolling down the face of the daft sod who always made me laugh.

I felt it deep in my chest — the same chest that had been ripped open with grief so many times before. I knew the truth of it: he was hurting as much as I was. We were two halves, raw, bleeding, and still trying to cling to joy in the middle of it all.

And yet, even in that storm of hurt, I could see it. His hand resting heavy over his heart, his whisper: “Don’t leave me. Not yet. We’ll get there.”

The snow outside carried our promise.