I had been married for less than two hours.
My husband, Julian, and I had spent eighteen months planning the wedding. In the final weeks, we discussed everything from champagne labels to whether the floral arch would survive unexpected rain.
Yet the conversation we repeated most often was not about money, flowers, or seating.
It was about family photographs.
“I need you to understand why this matters,” I told him one evening.
We were sitting at the kitchen island in the apartment we shared in Chicago. A spreadsheet of photo groupings glowed on my laptop between two half-eaten bowls of pasta.
Julian had removed his tie and rolled his sleeves above his elbows. He worked in commercial real estate and often returned home still wearing the calm, composed expression he used during negotiations.
At home, that expression usually faded.
That evening, it did not.
“I understand,” he said.
“You say that like you want the conversation to end.”
“I’m tired.”
“So am I.”
He pushed his bowl away.
