It’s been eight months.
One Sunday morning, Michael asked me to go out with him in the garden.
There were no photographers.
They weren’t hidden relatives.
It wasn’t music.
He had a box in his hand.
Before I open it, I mean something.
I looked at him.
If you say no, it stays no. I don’t want you to accept it because we have ten years together or because you’re afraid to lose them.
Then take a deep breath.
“I want to marry you because I understand that commitment is not a trap when you choose it freely. And because you were right: I wasn’t allowed to ask for all the benefits of a life together while I was just keeping the comfort of an easy exit for me.
He opened the box.
Laura, do you want to be my wife?
I looked at him for a few seconds.
