I thought I knew everything about Clara, the woman I was going to marry. She had this quiet, grounding presence that made chaos feel calm. We met in a used bookstore, bonded over a Murakami novel, and fell into a life filled with gentle routines and loud love. After two years of laughter, support, and shared dreams, I proposed. We planned a wedding, met each other’s families, and she often spoke about her grandparents with such affection that I couldn’t wait to meet them.
At our rehearsal dinner, Clara stepped away to take a call, and her grandparents walked in. The moment I saw their faces, my world stopped.
Tim and Hanna. Polite smiles. Pearls and a vest. The air drained from the room. These were the people from the worst day of my life—the couple involved in the crash that killed my parents when I was eight.
I remembered their faces from the accident, from the twisted metal and shattered glass. When Clara returned and saw me frozen, I had no words. All I could say was, “I can’t marry you.”
