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“It’s not personal,” his mother said once. “It’s just… how things look.”
Ethan defended me every time. But it wore on both of us.
Not small and intimate like Ethan and I wanted.
Big. Elegant. And “appropriate.”
“People expect a certain standard,” his mother kept saying.
So the guest list grew.
Business partners. Friends of friends. People I’d never met and probably never would again.
The venue was expensive.
The flowers were imported. Everything had to look perfect.
I didn’t care about any of it.
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