The Unfulfilled Wedding

While cleaning Desmond Maynard's house, I accidentally knocked over his mother's keepsake.

He once told me it was his most precious possession.

But when I picked it up, hundreds of love letters spilled out.

There were beautiful poems, passionate lyrics, and heartfelt confessions.

He had written one letter a week without stopping. On the back of each one wrote a line: To My Love, Bunny.

The nickname rang a bell. It was his junior in college.

Things started to make sense.

I slaved away for 13 years, running his household and caring for his family, but Desmond never even said he liked me.

That was because he already had someone he liked.

I sorted the letters by date, put them back, and grabbed my phone to make a call.

"Mom, I'm in for the marriage proposal."

...

My boss gasped, "You're quitting?"

His surprise was reasonable since I had just led the team to nail a big project. A promotion and raise were on the horizon.

"Yeah, I am," I replied calmly.

"Well then, I respect your choice. Is it marriage?" he said.

I shook my head and walked out.

There was no marriage, just an empty promise that kept me waiting infinitely.

Yesterday, I stumbled across Desmond Maynard's stash of love letters.

Each one was carefully preserved in a box with moisture-proof packets.

I counted them and found a total of 103 letters. The earliest was from two years ago, while the latest was last Friday.

I sat on the floor, opening them one by one.

The paper came in pink, blue, and green, smelling faintly of gardenias. Emotions flowed from those beautiful poems, passionate lyrics, and heartfelt confessions.

I recognized Desmond's neat handwriting. Writing love letters was his thing.

Back in college, he wrote me some, too. Those old letters were still lying in my drawer.

Now, on the backs of these letters wrote the same line: To My Love, Bunny.

That was how he called Megan Parker, his junior in college.

I once saw that name on his phone and asked about it. He blew up, accusing me of trying to control him.

After that, I stopped prying into his business.

Now I saw why. He was just mortified.

...

On his way home, Desmond texted me: [Come home early to clean Bruce.]

Through the line, I seemed to see his smug face.

His coldness to me was a stark contrast to his tenderness to Megan.

I ignored his text and slipped my phone into my pocket. Then I headed to a fancy restaurant, planning to go home after dinner.

Just then, my mom called. "I sent you some videos. Check them out and tell me which guy you like."