Vows and Shadows
1222 Words
Chapter Eleven: Vows and Shadows
The morning light poured into the kitchen, warm and golden, touching the edge of flour-dusted countertops and the curls in Mira’s messy hair as she danced barefoot on a stool.
“Mommy, can I wear a crown at the wedding?” she asked, eyes wide, her voice full of sugary joy.
“You already wear one, baby,” Catherine said, brushing a bit of flour from Mira’s nose. “It’s invisible—but very real.”
Mira beamed. “Then I want sparkle shoes to match.”
Max entered with Leo in tow, his tie slightly crooked. “If I have to watch one more YouTube video about ‘rustic-industrial wedding themes,’ I’m filing for creative differences.”
Catherine grinned. “You’d miss the look on my face when I walk down the aisle in a vintage lace dress.”
“You mean the one that cost more than my power drill collection?”
She smirked. “Exactly.”
Max sighed dramatically. “Fine. We’re not eloping.”
A Letter in the Mailbox
Three weeks before the wedding, Catherine came home to find a white envelope wedged beneath the door.
Her name. In handwriting she hadn’t seen in years—but would never forget.
Her fingers trembled slightly as she opened it.
Catherine,
I heard through former colleagues that you’re getting married. I won’t stand in your way. I don’t deserve your forgiveness—or theirs. But I need to see Leo one last time. He’s still my son. Please let me say goodbye.
—Ronan
She read it once. Then again. Her hand dropped to her side, the letter fluttering to the floor.
Somewhere Else—That Same Day
Ronan sat in the back of a nearly empty church in Berlin, staring at the rows of candles flickering before the altar. His breath fogged in the winter air that filtered through the cracked stained-glass.
He hadn’t prayed in years. Didn’t believe he deserved to.
But today, he whispered, “Please let me see my son.”
He rubbed his hands together, still calloused from work, still ringless. Still alone.
He’d heard Catherine was remarrying from a colleague who mentioned it in passing. A quiet sentence that shattered him in slow motion.
He could have called. Should have written sooner. But the truth was—he didn’t know what to say that didn’t sound like an apology carved
out of guilt.
When he thought of Leo… he remembered a little boy in the hospital. He remembered his small face. The way he clung to his finger. The first time he called held him.
And then he thought of Mira—the child who should’ve been his to protect. The one he failed before she ever took her first breath.
He placed the letter in the post the next morning, knowing it was probably too late.
But still… hoping.
That Evening
Catherine stood by the window, the letter open beside her on the table, the winter sky turning gray with snowclouds.
Max entered quietly, drying his hands with a dish towel. “Letter from him?”
She nodded, eyes fixed on the clouds. “He wants to say goodbye. To Leo.”
Max didn’t speak at first. He stepped beside her, his voice low. “And what do you want?”
She exhaled slowly. “I want to move on. But I also want to be fair. Leo deserves answers… just not now. Not on the edge of something new.
I can’t invite the past into this.”
Max gently took her hand. “I’ll support whatever you decide. But if he’s going to disrupt your peace again—you can say no.”
She looked at him, pain flickering in her gaze. “I already said goodbye. I just never thought he’d ask for one, too.”
The Wedding Week
The days that followed were filled with the buzz of celebration.
Freda flew in from Paris with more dresses than needed and just enough chaos. Catherine’s parents cried over menus. Mira insisted on pink
flower petals “because white is too boring.” Leo rehearsed walking Mira down the aisle with a wooden sign that read Here Comes the Bride—he took his job seriously, right down to practicing his “ceremonial posture.”
Max caught Catherine mid-stumble trying on her heels before the rehearsal dinner.
“Still want to elope?” he teased, steadying her.
She laughed. “It’s too late. Mira threatened the florist about ‘sparkle roses.’ There’s no turning back now.”
He leaned in. “I love her.”
“You love me.”
“Both,” he said. “But you most.”
The Night Before
Catherine stood on the balcony of the bridal suite, wearing her satin robe, her hair wrapped in soft rollers. The city lights flickered like stars across the harbor.
Freda joined her with two mugs of cocoa. “Cold?”
“A little,” Catherine said. “But more… reflective.”
“You nervous?”
“I was. The last time. But this… feels different.”
Freda looked at her friend closely. “Because this time, you’re not chasing hope. You’re choosing certainty.”
Catherine sipped her cocoa. “He knows all of me. The broken, the guarded. And he stayed.”
“No,” Freda said. “He chose you. That’s deeper than staying.”
Wedding Day
Sunlight poured through the stained-glass windows of the old chapel, scattering reds and golds across polished floors.
Mira scattered her petals, more like tiny explosions than delicate drops, grinning at the guests. Leo held his head high as he led her, proud and protective.
And then Catherine appeared—on her father’s arm, glowing in vintage lace and tear-filled grace.
Max turned to see her—and stopped breathing.
“You look like forever,” he whispered as she reached him.
“And you look like home,” she replied.
Their vows were unpolished but pure.
“I promise to love the life we build, not the one we imagine.”
“I promise to listen—especially when I don’t want to.”
“I promise to never run. Even when it’s hard.”
“And I promise never to let you carry anything alone.”
Later That Night
The reception glowed with fairy lights and warm laughter. Children danced with sticky fingers and open hearts.
Leo stood up during the toasts, nervous, a paper in his hand that he quickly shoved into his pocket.
“I just wanna say… thank you, Max. For never making me feel like I was less than your kid. For... just showing up. Every day.”
Max’s voice cracked. “You are my kid.”
And Catherine—new wife, whole woman—reached out, clasping both their hands.
They danced under stars and string lights. Mira spun in her flower girl dress. Leo laughed with chocolate on his cheek.
And far away—under the shadow of a cold Berlin sky—Ronan stood outside an old toy shop, holding a tiny wooden plane in his hand.
He didn’t send it.
He couldn’t.
But he whispered into the cold air, “Tell him… I never stopped loving him.”
And for the first time in years, he cried.
- Writer
