Three months until the wedding, I was exhausted with decisions. What color should the ribbons be on the bridesmaid dresses? Would lemon pepper chicken satisfy my mother’s critical tongue? It was no wonder then when my future husband looked at me over his bagel and asked, “What music are we playing?” that I heard something crack inside me.
He set a buttery hand on my shoulder, allowing me to weep.
Music? Impossible. Car rides fizzled into radio battles, fighting for dial control. When my weeping disintegrated, my fiancee spoke again.
“Good, I asked my cousin. He’s a wedding violinist.”
I cried again. I had forgotten that the whole point of this ceremony was that I wouldn’t shoulder anything alone again.
Halfway through the reception, our violinist was forced to play with Coca-Cola on his shirt (freak children’s incident). It didn’t matter. My husband stepped up without me needing to ask.