Page 2 of My Only (My First, My Last)

A yla

The moment my mother and I stepped onto the aisle, it felt like stepping into a dream. The ocean waves rolled in soft harmony beneath a steel drum band playing a reggae rendition of Endless Love.

And when Hassani and I locked eyes, I had to inhale a deep breath to keep it together.

My mother sniffled beside me, and I swear it only took one glance from me for her to start crying the cry she’d been holding in all over again.

I couldn’t help but snort a laugh at her. “Mama, please.”

“I’m sorry, beloved.” She dabbed at her eyes while looking away.

She’d been crying all morning. If I’m being honest, she’d been crying since we landed in Montego Bay, Jamaica.

My mother designed and sewed wedding dresses for a living, so you’d think she’d be used to the emotional weight of weddings. But I guess because this one was her daughter’s, it just hit differently.

I never imagined my wedding would happen like this—spontaneous, breathtaking, and so completely us. But when Hassani looked at me one night and said, “Let’s just do it,” I knew there was no other way.

“What?” I asked, rolling over to face him in bed.

It had been four years since we made things official.

Two years since he proposed—right after I stepped out of the shower, fresh from our visit to the National September 11 Memorial & Museum.

But between Hassani’s grueling architecture projects and the clients who kept recommending him to other entrepreneurs, his work schedule was rarely free.

We’d agreed that once his latest project wrapped up, we would start planning our wedding. Our parents had grown tired of waiting and brought it up every chance they got.

“Let’s just get married in May,” he said.

“That’s in two months.”

He smiled. “I know.”

I giggled. “I remember the last time you said ‘let’s just do it’ and proposed we get married in a month. That was two years ago.”

And part of me was grateful we hadn’t rushed it. But saying yes to that leap, even back then, had built a deeper trust between us—one that only grew stronger over time.

“That’s why I’m saying let’s just do it now… but this time, for real.” His smile grew wider. “Look, work’s always going to be work. And while I’m grateful for the projects coming in, I’m tired of waiting to say ‘I do.’”

I smiled back, shaking my head. “Where the hell are we going to get married in two months?”

Jamaica.

I had never been to the island, but both of Hassani’s parents were born and raised there.

He promised it would be the perfect setting for our nuptials—stunning, intimate, and something we could pull off in little time.

“You two are like a getaway, Favorite Girl,” my Aunt Laurie had said when I told her where we’d be having the wedding. “So, it makes total sense to have a destination wedding.”

She was the first person I spotted as my mother and I stepped onto the aisle. Aunt Laurie dabbed at her eyes with a tissue, her smile so grand it made me stutter a breath.

I had never imagined my wedding. Never saw myself in a big, puffy dress. A traditional church wedding didn’t feel right for me. So a destination wedding?

That made sense.

“You’ve been patient for way too long,” Hassani had told me once we agreed to say our vows in Jamaica. “And I’m ready to make you Mrs. Franklin like yesterday.”

“Like yesterday” was today.

On a serene beach at sunset, on an aisle lined with colorful tropical flowers—hibiscus, orchids—lit by soft lanterns glowing all around us as the sun dipped below the horizon, I walked toward my future. Toward a waiting Hassani and our officiant, my arm looped through my mother’s.

What no one knew was that this morning, I cried like I hadn’t cried in a while.

Before I faced the world and got swept into the whirlwind of my wedding day, I let myself bawl.

I may have never dreamed of my wedding, but I knew that when the time came, my father would walk me down the aisle.

I wished he could see me like this—happy, in love, on the arm of the woman who raised me.

I imagined him cracking a joke under his breath, probably making some remark about Hassani’s nerves. The thought made me smile, even as the ache of his absence pressed against my ribs.

I blinked, pushing away the sting of tears.

This was a day for love.

And love, I knew, had a way of carrying us through loss.

Yet and still, it hurt me deep in a place I couldn’t reach to soothe—that my dad wasn’t here. There wasn’t a day I didn’t miss him, no matter how much time had passed.

My mother tightened her grip on my biceps as we moved farther down the aisle.

Expecting to see fresh tears in her eyes, I glanced at her again, only to be met with a huge smile.

“You look beautiful, Ayla,” she whispered. “So very beautiful.”

I smiled.

“And I know I’ve said that a lot today, but you truly do.”

“Well, I had the best seamstress in the world to make my dress.”

She giggled. “I don’t just mean the dress , Ayla.” My mother leaned in, hugging my arm a little tighter. “There’s not enough lace in the world to compete with the natural glow you have today, beloved.”

We were only steps away when she added, “Your father would have been so proud. I’m very proud of you.”

The tears I thought I had under control threatened to fall. I had to fight like hell to keep them back.

I focused ahead, finding Hassani watching me as I approached. He must’ve swallowed at least twenty times as I got closer, visibly emotional. His hazel-green eyes glistened, his lids slightly red-rimmed as he fought back tears of his own.

I could not believe us.

Over here being so damn emotional.

He looked amazing in a tailored linen suit, a boutonnière of tropical flowers pinned to his chest.

We were finally doing it.

And as much as I was overjoyed, a small part of me was nervous too. These past four years, after reconnecting, had been nothing but bliss. I wondered if we could maintain that as husband and wife.

The moment my mother and I reached the end of the aisle, Hassani’s smile was so wide I could count every one of his teeth. That just made my smile even bigger.

Our officiant, Reverend Malachi Harte, smiled brightly at us.

Hassani’s parents, Joslyn and Percy Franklin, had known Reverend Harte their whole lives—they’d all grown up together.

Mr. and Mrs. Franklin had promised he would be the best person to officiate our wedding, explaining how he was known in the community for his deeply personal and meaningful messages for couples.

“Good evening, family and friends,” Reverend Harte began. “We are gathered here today, under the setting sun and the watchful eye of the Creator, to celebrate a love that is pure, steadfast, and inspiring.”

My mother nodded softly.

“Ayla and Hassani,” he continued, glancing between us, “you have chosen this beautiful place, surrounded by the sea and sky, as the setting for the vows you are about to make.” He gestured with a hand.

“A place as vast and enduring as the love you share. Today, we honor not just the union of two hearts but the bond of two souls who have chosen to walk through life together, side by side.”

Then, Reverend Harte turned to my mother.

“So now, I ask: Who gives this woman to be married to this man?”

I glanced at my mother just as she turned to me, pride and love shining in her brown eyes.

“With all my love,” she said, her voice steady. “ I do.”

I had to press my lips together to keep from completely losing it. It had always been hard for me not to cry when I saw my mother crying, and today was no different.

She leaned in and kissed my cheek, then gently placed my hand in Hassani’s, smiling at him even bigger than she had at me before stepping aside. She moved toward her seat in the front row, settling in beside Mrs. Franklin, with Aunt Laurie to her right.

Our guest list was small. Intimate.

We’d only invited those we loved and who could fly out of the country on short notice. One of those people we loved included my best friend, Sunni, and her husband, Josiah, who sat just behind my mother.

The soft caress of Hassani’s thumb over the back of my hand had me turning my head to focus on him. The second our eyes met, I smiled so big my cheeks ached.

“You look so beautiful, my God,” he whispered as we faced forward. “Like… damn, A.”

My dress was one my mother had closed all her bookings to create. She worked morning, noon, and night to make it perfect.

I told her I didn’t know exactly what I wanted—just that it had to be white and that it couldn’t make me hot.

She came up with a plunging neckline, floral, flowy lace design. Spaghetti straps. Delicate patterns of subtle palm leaves. Very boho and beachy, with the most stunning train—just enough, not over the top.

My mama was a genius.

And I knew I could trust her to make a dress that would do me justice.

She had insisted I pair it with a floral crown. Had insisted I pull my hair back into a bun, too. The final result?

Hassani only saw me at the altar.

“Marriage is not just a partnership,” Reverend Harte said, his gaze sweeping over us. “It is a covenant. A sacred promise to love, honor, and cherish each other in all seasons of life.”

“Amen,” Mrs. Franklin said from her seat.

“There will be sunny days like today, filled with laughter and light,” he continued. “But there may also be stormy ones.” He lifted a finger. “On those stormy days, when the clouds gather and the waters rise, it will be your love, Ayla and Hassani, and your commitment that see you through.”

I nodded.

“Marriage is not built in a single day.” Reverend Harte smiled.

“It is like the finest of homes. It takes patience, care, and a strong foundation to stand the test of time. And when the cracks appear, as they sometimes will, it is up to you both to repair them, to rebuild together, and to never stop adding new layers of love.”

He paused.

“Because, as they say, home is where the heart truly is.”

Reverend Harte held his hand out toward our small gathering of guests.