At her wedding reception, Jess marvels over how perfect everything turned out. When she has a quiet moment away from her guests, she asks to view some wedding photos. But what she sees sends her spiraling.
After three years of being together, and a year to plan our dream wedding, Adam and I got married.
Everything was perfect. We had our favorite food, music, and people. I thought nothing could ruin this wonderful day until I asked our photographer to show me some of our wedding photos on her camera.
Adam and I married at sunset, my favorite time of the day. The entire ceremony was perfectly planned for our vows to be recited while the sun streamed from all angles.
Of course, then it was time to party. Adam wanted our reception to be one big bash and for our guests to have a blast.
Bride and Groom silhouettes during sunset | Source: Pixabay
We also wanted every moment to be documented, so we hired Jack and Annie to capture our wedding bliss through the lenses.
We also had a photo booth, but we wanted candid photos.
“We’re only getting married once,” Adam said when I questioned whether we were being too lavish with our money.
“Let’s make memories, Jess,” he said, kissing my hand.
Person sitting in a photo booth | Source: Pexels
During our reception, I noticed Annie sitting alone while Adam was toasting away with his groomsmen.
“I’m taking a break,” she chuckled, sipping a cocktail. “Jack has it covered.”
“Well, while I have you,” I said, sitting beside her. “Can you show me some of the photos? I want to see what my dress looks like from the back.”
“Sure,” Annie said. She hesitated, sipping her cocktail slowly while turning a little red.
I turned around to look at the crowd while Annie drank.
“But you look beautiful,” she said, picking up her camera.
“My mom made a joke about the dress making my butt look a little big,” I chuckled, feeling the warmth from the champagne radiate through me.
Annie held the camera and, resting it lightly on her leg, began swiping through the images.
Woman sipping on a cocktail | Source: Pexels
I couldn’t help but smile at the photographs — I loved seeing the guests enjoy themselves.
But staring at the vibrant photographs, my eye caught something peculiar in the background of one the pictures of me and my parents.
The photo captured a brief yet unexpected moment — I saw Adam holding Annie’s hand as they shared a stolen kiss.
I could not believe my eyes. I zoomed in just to make sure I was not making it up, but it was all there.
The photographer choked on the drink she was sipping, her face turning purple.
I couldn’t breathe. Adam and I had only been married for about three hours, and already, he was betraying me.
“Don’t you dare move,” I hissed at Annie. “Don’t you dare say a word!”
Annie nodded quickly, her eyes wide at my sudden change of demeanor.
But what did she really expect? I was at my own wedding, and I had just found out that my husband had cheated. After she betrayed me like that and ruined my wedding day, I made sure her photography career would take a hit.
I picked up Annie’s camera and took it to the DJ, who screened a series of photographs of Adam and me through the years while he blasted out the latest hits.
Person holding a camera | Source: Pexels
“Are you sure?” he asked when I told him what I needed him to do.
“Absolutely,” I said.
When it was time for speeches, my father talked about love and how glad he was that I had chosen Adam as my partner. But I could barely listen to a word. Instead, I sat there, recalling the subtle tension between Annie and Adam when we first met with her and Jack, her business partner.
I had trusted Adam so implicitly that the thought of infidelity was a foreign invader in our relationship.
After my father toasted Adam and me, wishing us a happily married life, it was my turn to give Adam my wedding gift.
Ever since I met my new husband, he has spoken about an unexplained love for Iceland.
“There’s just something about the elephant rock and the lava caves, Jess. It feels magical. Maybe I lived there in another life,” he had said on our second date.
When we were planning the wedding, Adam decided that the whole thing would be on him and our families, and I would surprise him with our honeymoon.
Knowing how much effort was put into the ceremony, I wanted to surprise him with a trip to Iceland. I wanted him to experience the love he had for Iceland with me.
Green Iceland landscape | Source: Pexels
I took the mic and spoke of Adam’s dream visit to Iceland. I watched him hang onto my every word, his eyes shining.
I nodded to Duncan, our DJ.
The screen flashed with the photograph of Annie and Adam.
I watched Adam try to mask his shock, and Annie tried to hide her face. Once filled with shouts of celebration and tipsy guests, the room echoed with gasps and hushed whispers.
Adam pulled me outside, away from the guests who wanted to know more.
“I’ve known Annie since we were teenagers, Jess,” he said frantically. “All the wedding planning just rekindled the past love we had. But it was fleeting. It was just a mistake, Jess.”
He pleaded for forgiveness, tears streaming down his face. But I didn’t want to give him that — I didn’t want to forgive him.
Maybe under different circumstances, I would have felt differently. But just after we got married? No way.
Close-up of man crying | Source: Pexels
The next day, I annulled our marriage, leaving behind the shards of shattered vows.
Adam can sort things out with Annie.
I still had my bags packed, ready for my honeymoon. So, I had my sister pack her bags and join me.
Now, I’m sitting in our hotel room, drinking hot chocolate and reflecting on what would have happened if I didn’t see that photo — my wedded life would have begun in ignorance.
Person holding a mug of hot chocolate | Source: Pexels
Has anything as heartbreaking happened to you?
Here’s another story for you: Jess is happy to know that her mother, Mona, wants to spend more time with her children during their summer holidays. She even tries to look past the fact that Mona just wants her to divorce Matt, her husband. But when Jess goes to a café during her lunch, she gets a lot more than the menu offers.
Read the full story here.
This work is inspired by real events and people, but it has been fictionalized for creative purposes. Names, characters, and details have been changed to protect privacy and enhance the narrative. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
The author and publisher make no claims to the accuracy of events or the portrayal of characters and are not liable for any misinterpretation. This story is provided “as is,” and any opinions expressed are those of the characters and do not reflect the views of the author or publisher.
Listening to the Echoes of Time: One Woman’s Mission to Preserve the Stories of the Elderly
The sterile scent of antiseptic hung heavy in the air as I navigated the maze-like corridors of the nursing home. I clutched a stack of donated blankets, a small gesture of comfort for the residents. As I rounded a corner, I came upon a heartwarming scene. A group of elderly residents, their faces a tapestry of wrinkles and age spots, sat in a circle, their eyes fixed on a young woman. She sat on a low stool, a small journal resting on her lap, her pen moving swiftly across the page.
“She comes every week,” a nurse whispered to me, her voice hushed. “None of them are her family.”
Intrigued, I watched from a distance. The residents, their voices frail and reedy, recounted stories of long-ago loves, childhood adventures, and wartime experiences. The young woman listened intently, her eyes filled with a gentle curiosity. She would occasionally pause, asking a clarifying question, her voice soft and soothing. As she listened, she meticulously recorded their words, capturing their memories in ink.
Later, I approached the young woman, thanking her for her kindness. “Many of them get no visitors,” she explained, her smile warm and genuine. “Their memories are fading, and I worry that their stories will be lost forever. So, I come here every week and listen. I write down their names, their life stories, the names of their loved ones, the places they’ve been, the things they’ve done. It’s a small thing, but I hope it helps them feel seen and heard.”
Her words struck a chord within me. In a world that often prioritizes the new and the shiny, it was easy to forget the importance of the past, the stories that shaped us. These elderly residents, with their fading memories, were a living archive of history, their lives a testament to the resilience of the human spirit. And this young woman, with her simple act of kindness, was ensuring that their stories would not be forgotten.
As I walked away, I couldn’t shake off the image of the young woman, her pen dancing across the page, capturing the essence of a life lived. Her actions were a powerful reminder that true compassion lies in the small, everyday gestures of kindness, in the act of simply listening and acknowledging the humanity of others.
The experience left me pondering the fleeting nature of time and the importance of preserving our memories. It made me realize that everyone has a story to tell, a legacy to leave behind. And sometimes, all it takes is a listening ear and a pen to ensure that those stories are not lost to the sands of time.
Later that day, I found myself reflecting on my own life, on the stories I wanted to tell, the memories I wanted to preserve. I started a journal of my own, a place to record my thoughts, my experiences, the joys and sorrows, the triumphs and failures. I wanted to make sure that my own story, however ordinary, would not be forgotten.
The young woman at the nursing home had shown me the power of empathy, the importance of connecting with others, and the enduring value of human connection. Her simple act of kindness had not only brought comfort to the elderly residents but had also inspired me to live a more meaningful life, one that valued the stories of others and cherished the memories that shaped us.
As I drifted off to sleep that night, I imagined the residents at the nursing home, their faces lit up with a sense of purpose as they recounted their lives to the young woman. I imagined their stories, their laughter, their tears, all preserved on the pages of her journal, a testament to their lives, a legacy for future generations. And I knew that in a small way, I too was contributing to the preservation of those stories, by sharing my own and by reminding myself of the importance of listening, of connecting, and of cherishing the memories that make us who we are.
The world, I realized, is filled with stories waiting to be told, with lives waiting to be remembered. And in the quiet moments, in the simple acts of kindness, we can all play a part in ensuring that those stories live on.
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