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Geri

3 Years Later

Istood there while my mother laced up my dress from the back, the intricate pattern of holes and ribbon making me shift impatiently. What had seemed so perfect on the rack now felt like an exercise in endurance as she threaded the black satin ribbon through what must have been a hundred tiny eyelets.

"Will you just take a breath and relax?" My mother's voice was gentle with amusement. "You're meant to be happy, not jittery and stressed out."

She was right, of course. She had always been right, especially in these last few years as we'd rebuilt our relationship into something stronger and more honest than it had ever been. I caught her eye in the mirror and tried to slow my breathing, which only made her smile wider.

"That's better," she said, her fingers never pausing in their work. "Though I'm not sure why you chose a dress that requires an engineering degree to put on."

"Because it's perfect," I replied, and it was. The black lace bodice gave way to layers of midnight tulle that seemed to float around my legs. Not the traditional white—I'd never wanted white. It wouldn't have felt authentic, and if there was one thing I'd learned in my journey, it was the importance of authenticity.

My father had dropped by earlier, his eyes suspiciously bright as he'd pressed something into my palm—an old gold pin with a small pearl at its centre.

"This is for something borrowed," he'd said gruffly. "Your grandmother wore it on her wedding day."

I'd smiled at him and kissed his cheek; another relationship healed in the years since I'd come home. I'd made it my mission to fix what I'd broken, and fix it I had—not perfectly, not without setbacks, but with a persistence I hadn't known I possessed.

"Right, all threaded," my mother announced, breaking into my thoughts. "Now let's do this up so tight you can't breathe, and we'll be ready."

I smiled at her in the mirror as she did, in fact, lace it up so tight I was gasping, but the end result was perfect. The dress hugged my curves before flowing outward, making me look like something from a fairy tale—albeit a slightly darker one than most.

My arms were now covered in tattoos, the cherry blossoms still there but joined by so many others. Every time something significant happened in my life—even the ugly times—I had gotten a tattoo to remember it by. They were my reminders of who I was and who I was becoming, a visual history of my journey etched permanently into my skin.

As my mother tied the ribbon in a knot, she pulled a letter from her bag and handed it to me.

"Con asked me to give this to you today," she said softly.

Tears pricked in my eyes as I stared down at my own handwriting. The envelope simply said "To Her."

My hands trembled as I opened it, finding inside the original letter I had given him years ago, the one addressed to his future wife. I unfolded it carefully, noting he had added more to the bottom of the letter. I began to read, my heart in my throat.

To the woman Con loves,

You don't know me, and by the time you read this (if you ever do), I'll be a distant memory in Con's life. But I wanted to write to you anyway, to tell you what I know about the man you love.

Con is the kindest person I've ever known. Not in a showy way, but in the quiet moments when it would be easier to walk away. He stays. He helps. He cares, deeply and without reservation.

He loves with his whole heart. I know this because he loved me once, even when I was at my worst, even when I gave him every reason not to.

He's funny in a way that sneaks up on you—dry humour delivered with such perfect timing that you find yourself laughing days later at something he said.

He's talented, though he'll downplay it if you mention it. Watch him when he doesn't know you're looking—when he's lost in his music or his cooking. That's when you'll see it, love cause Con knows exactly how to love someone.

He's stubborn about the strangest things—he'll argue for hours about the "correct" way to make tea but concede major life decisions with a shrug and a smile.

He snores, but only when he sleeps on his back. He remembers birthdays and anniversaries without being reminded, and he always, always calls when he says he will.

I'm writing this because I want you to know how lucky you are. Not in a bitter way—I had my chance with Con, and I wasn'tready for it. But you are. You must be, for him to have chosen you.

Love him well. Love him better than I could. He deserves nothing less.

Geri

Then the sectionhe had added at the bottom:

To Her