I went to city hall, my heart pounding, ready to marry the love of my life. But the words I heard there froze me cold. “Sir, according to our records… you’re already married,” the clerk said. I blinked. My mind stalled. “What? That’s impossible. I’ve never—ever—been married.” Her eyes were sympathetic but firm. “I’m just telling you what the system says, sir. There’s a certificate here. You were legally married two years ago.” Two years ago. That was right before I met Clara. Right before life started to make sense

I’m Laura. I’m 40 years old, and I work as a cashier in a small neighborhood grocery store. It’s not what I dreamed of when I was a kid. I didn’t imagine myself standing on my feet for eight hours, listening to beeps and freezer hums, asking the same questions over and over. But it pays the bills. Mostly. And at this stage of life, “mostly” is better than nothing. When you stand behind a register long enough, you start learning things about people without meaning to. You learn the

Thirty years. It’s a long time, but somehow it never feels long when you make a promise at 30. Back then, 30 felt close enough to forever. You think the people you love will always be the same, that friendships built in reckless youth will last, simply because they once felt unbreakable. But 30 years… 30 years has a way of slipping by quietly. It takes moments, faces, pieces of life with it, until one day you realize everything has changed without asking permission. “Man, I hope they show up,”