My younger cousin is getting married. I pray her story ends differently than mine.
She’s twenty-five.
Deeply in love.
And getting married next month to a man who looks at her like she’s the beginning and end of everything.
He pulled her chair out at dinner.
Kissed her forehead when she wasn’t looking.
Offered to carry her bag before she could even ask.
She laughed the whole night. Not once did I see her flinch.
And I thought…God, I hope she gets to keep this.
Because I remember being her.
New to love.
Wide-eyed.
Hopeful.
Dreaming in Pinterest boards and honeymoon destinations.
Believing that love would be enough if I just poured myself into it hard enough.
I believed in forever.
Never expected betrayal.
But somehow it happened.
As I watch her trying on dresses, glowing in group chats, and counting down the days, I smile.
And I mean it.
But there’s a tightness in my chest I can’t explain.
It’s not jealousy.
It’s… grief.
For the version of me that didn’t get to keep her fairytale.
Grief for the girl who packed up baby clothes and trust at the same time.
Grief for the woman I had to become because love didn’t hold me the way I held it.
But even through the grief, there’s hope.
Because if love can find her…it can be kind to her.
Maybe she’ll be the one who gets to say, “We made it.”
Maybe she’ll get anniversaries, inside jokes, and a husband who still wants to hold her hand when she’s 60.
And if she does, I’ll clap the loudest.
I’ll bring the biggest gift, thanking God that someone I love got the love I used to dream of.
I’m hopeful for her. Hopeful that one of us gets the happy ending.
And honestly…that’s enough.