I believed I knew everything about my future wife—every tale, secret, and background. Everything changed when her grandparents entered our rehearsal dinner with frozen grins and eyes full of something I couldn’t place. They demolished everything I believed we had, not just stunned me.
People constantly claim you “just know” when you meet the perfect person. After meeting Elise, I stopped rolling my eyes at that cliché.
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I wasn’t looking for anything serious when we met. After a breakup, I was too busy at work and fascinated with my new espresso machine. In the back of a dusty secondhand bookshop, she commented on my worn copy of Norwegian Wood.
“Great book,” she commented. “Or do you like the sad cover?”
That started it.
After two years, Elise knew everything about me. She knew I wore socks to bed in July, sang Coltrane when worried, and loathed slugs. No attempt was made to repair me. She just remained.
She wasn’t garish. Her calm friendliness prompted people tell her their life tales at the grocery store. She remembered every birthday, sobbed during animal rescue documentaries, and made everyone feel noticed.
As if she loved me naturally.
She held my hand through layoffs, family strife, and insomnia. She agreed when I proposed at our favorite viewpoint before dusk because she was crying.
We planned the wedding. Elise discovered an outfit that expressed her best self. I learnt peony vs. ranunculus. Her parents? Wonderful individuals. Her parents laughed twinkly, and her dad shook my hand and said, “Take care of her.”
She regularly mentioned her grandparents. Said they basically reared her. When she spoke of them, her eyes sparkled with nostalgia.
“You’ll love them,” she said. “The kindest people in the world.”
We had a nice rehearsal dinner at a tiny Italian restaurant with red-checkered tablecloths and candles the night before our wedding. Elise looked tranquil in a beautiful blue outfit.
They entered after she took a call.
An elderly couple in their 70s. His vest was charcoal. She carried pearls and a neat purse.
“Are you Aiden?” he inquired, extending his hand. We’re Elise’s grandparents, Walter and Miriam.
I froze. My stomach sank.
Those faces.
No. Not possible.
Smiley Elise returned. Oh, you met! “Aren’t they sweet?”
But my voice was gone. Shaking, I removed my hand.
“I can’t marry you.”
It was quiet.
Her face wrinkled in perplexity. “What? What are you talking about, Aiden?
Hard to breathe. Dimmed room surrounding me. Looking at her grandparents.
“Because of them,” I muttered. Since I know them. From my worst day.”
Walter frowned. Miriam looked worried.
I was eight. We returned from a picnic by car. My mom sang and dad tapped the wheel. I was in the backseat eating fries, thinking it was the finest day ever.”
My voice cracked as I stared at Walter and Miriam.
Then it occurred. Cars ran red lights. That car.”
Elise hid her lips. “No, Aiden.”
“They struck us. My parents died. I recall their faces. I recall them crying for assistance outside the vehicle while I was trapped.”
Walter slowly forward, trembling. “That was you?”
He looked broken. Miriam paled.
“I had a stroke behind the wheel,” he stated. “Lost control in seconds. It took nothing else. We sought the kid. The records were sealed. What transpired was unknown.”
Elise turned to me, crying. “I didn’t know, Aiden. I swear.”
“I know you didn’t. Not because I can’t marry you. I simply… I need time. Seeing them brought it all back. Like losing them again.”
Her voice collapsed. “Please don’t.”
“I love you,” I said. “But I can’t. Not now.”
Just exited the restaurant. The wedding was canceled the following morning. No resistance from Elise. Neither did I. Silently, we packed our flat. I left. I stopped checking phone.
Weekly therapy began. My therapist avoided clichés. She listened as I finally spoke the words I’d hidden for decades.
I once said, “I feel like forgiving them betrays my parents.”
She softly continued, “And do you think your parents would want that pain for you forever?”
That stuck.
Months passed. I stopped waking up angry. I remembered my parents’ nice qualities. My dad’s nasal laughter. Mom’s ritualistic kisses on my head.
One beautiful March day, I returned to the bookshop. The Norwegian Wood replica remained. I stood holding it, remembering.
Later that night, I was outside Elise’s apartment. I knocked with shaking hands.
Doors opened by her. Met eyes. She seemed exhausted and tiny. Still Elise.
“Hi,” I said. “Can we talk?”
We ate midnight munchies and debated movies on her sofa.
“I’ve been working through it,” I replied. It was hard. But now I recall more than just the pain.”
She grabbed my hand.
“I never stopped loving you,” she muttered.
“Neither did I. I want to start with the complete truth this time. No shadows between.”
She nods.
As the city lights flashed, we sat together.
Not a great finish. Maybe that was a start.