“”A garden ceremony would look beautiful in the photos,”” she said. “”And my mom still thinks the reception should be at the Bellevue. Please don’t argue with her in front of everyone.””
I nodded automatically.
The truth was, I wasn’t really listening.
Families filled the park, children laughed as they chased each other across the grass, and couples sat on benches sharing coffee and soft conversations. There was something painfully peaceful about it all, like I was watching a life I’d never managed to hold onto.
Then I saw her.
Rachel Ames.
Even after four years, I recognized her instantly.
She stood near a pretzel cart with one hand wrapped around the handle of a large stroller. Her brown hair was tied into a hurried knot, and she looked exhausted. She was thinner than I remembered, older somehow, as if life had placed far more weight on her shoulders than anyone deserved.
