The week before the wedding moved like a train on a track: loud, unstoppable, and full of people you couldn’t un-invite. The house sat on its new foundation like a small, patient promise, the porch framing the world we’d chosen to live in. Every plank we added felt like an answer to the months of rumor and repair, and yet none of it erased the way nerves live in the body — a low, constant ache that sits under the ribs and hums.
Work was the first to throw a new shape into our plans. A supplier called on Tuesday: a shipping error meant the windows for the house wouldn’t arrive until after the ceremony. The manufacturer swore it was a one-day delay at worst, but in our ledger, one day could mean a cascade of changes. Mark paced the yard with his phone pressed to his ear like a talisman. “Th
