His Wedding My Exit Chapter 13
On the day of our wedding, the photographer showed us the shots he’d just taken.
In one of them, I was smiling with my face turned slightly to the left, and the faint scar at the tail of my eyebrow, from a childhood fall, was still there.
Elliot leaned in. “This one looks good.”
I asked, on purpose, “What score?”
He paused. “What score?”
I started to laugh. “Nothing.”
He looked down and studied it again. “If I have to rate it, ten out of ten.”
“That’s it?”
“My wife is smiling so happily. Where could I possibly take off a point?” I looked at myself in the photo.
I hadn’t styled my hair the way someone else liked, I hadn’t hidden that scar, and I hadn’t asked anyone beforehand whether I looked pretty enough this way. Around us people were already urging us to go make the rounds and toast the guests.
Elliot held out his hand to me. “Shall we go?”
I placed my hand in his. “Let’s go.”
Many years ago, I used to believe that being loved meant trying as hard as I could to become the version someone else preferred. Only later did I understand that the person who was truly right for me would never use another woman’s answers to rewrite who I was. Wedding photos didn’t need a perfect score, and neither did I.
I just needed to stand exactly where I truly wanted to stand. And this time, I was absolutely sure—I wanted to.