At 35, I was finally engaged to the love of my life, and for eight months, I threw myself into wedding planning—menus, flowers, dress fittings, timelines—the childhood dream coming true. Jared and I met two years ago at a friend’s party; he helped with a stubborn wine bottle, we bonded instantly, shared laughter and values, and soon became inseparable. His proposal last Christmas was perfect—I said yes without hesitation.
As our wedding approached, everything seemed on track: venue, playlists, honeymoon—the works. Then, a week before the wedding, Jared grew distant. He claimed nerves, but when I ran into his groomsman Dylan, I learned Jared had secretly planned a “closure” trip with his ex instead of the guys’ hiking trip he told me about. My heart dropped.
The next morning, I quietly orchestrated my own move. At the airport, accompanied by my college ex Liam—just to mirror Jared’s move—Jared and Miranda appeared, surprised. With calm composure, I told Jared that Liam and I were off for our own closure trip. Then we boarded our flight—no show, truly gone.
On that trip, Liam and I reconnected, laughter spilling into late-night conversations. By the end of the week, sparks reignited. Six months later, he moved in, proposed, and we quietly married this spring. Jared emailed months later: “Guess your closure worked.” I smiled—because it did.