Dominic and I had what I thought was a solid, comfortable love story. We met at a party, bonded over a shared hatred of IPAs, and built a life together, one easy step at a time. We moved in together, adopted a cat named Beans, and last summer, on our favorite hiking trail, he nervously fumbled a ring box out of his pocket. I said yes immediately.
The cracks started to appear about three months ago. They were small at first, easy to explain away. When I showed him potential wedding venues, he’d murmur about the cost. When I sent him catering options, his replies were hours late and monosyllabic. “Just busy at work,” he’d say. His construction company had taken on some big projects. It made sense.
Then he started spending more time with his work friend, Paul. Beers after work, games at Paul’s place. He’d come home distant, his face illuminated by the glow of his phone, his affection a ghost of what it used to be. My best friend, Lena, suggested pre-wedding jitters. “Have a date night,” she advised. “Reconnect.”
So I did. I booked a table at a new Italian place, put on a nice dress, and had his favorite beer waiting in the fridge. The date night was a disaster. He was a million miles away, his eyes vacant, his conversation stilted. When I brought up our honeymoon plans, he dropped the bomb.
“I’m not sure I’m ready for all this,” he said, gesturing vaguely at the restaurant, at me, at our life. “The wedding, marriage… everything.”
I was stunned. Five years, and now he wasn’t sure? He mumbled something about conversations with Paul, about Paul’s brother’s messy divorce. The ride home was a tomb of silent tension. He spent the night on the couch.
The next morning, he left to watch a game with Paul and some work friends. I was too emotionally drained to argue. A few hours later, Lena convinced me to get out of the apartment. We wandered through Target, a haze of retail therapy and heartbroken rambling.
As I was pulling back into our apartment complex, I got a text from Kyler, one of Dominic’s coworkers. Are you okay? Things got weird at the bar.
I called him. He was hesitant, but with a little pressing, the horrifying story came out. The guys had been giving Dominic a hard time about getting married. When Paul asked what was holding him back, Dominic, drunk and belligerent, had said it. The words that would shatter my world.
“If she were prettier, I’d be more excited about marrying you.”
He’d laughed it off, a cruel, dismissive sound. Kyler said some of the other guys called him out, but Dominic just got defensive, claiming they couldn’t take a joke.
I sat in my car for twenty minutes, the sound of my own sobs filling the small space. The man I loved, the man I was supposed to build a life with, had used my appearance as a punchline to a joke I wasn’t even there to hear.
The next morning, I woke to the smell of coffee and bacon—Dominic’s standard apology breakfast. He looked hungover and sheepish. When I confronted him, his face fell. He claimed it was just drunken stupidity, a dumb thing he’d said to shut the guys up. “It was just guys being guys,” he insisted, an excuse that only poured salt on the wound.
I couldn’t stay there. I packed a bag and went to my brother Elliot’s place, my safe harbor. All day, Dominic’s texts poured in, a barrage of apologies and pleas to come home. I responded only once: I need time.
On Monday morning, I got a call from Valerie, Dominic’s mom. We’d always been close. She was crying, saying Dominic had called her, that there was something important I needed to know. She asked me to meet her for coffee.
Before I could leave, Lena came over with sandwiches. “You can’t hide forever,” she said gently. She was right. We lived together. We had joint accounts. This had to be faced.
I drove back to the apartment, rehearsing a calm, mature speech. I found him on the couch, surrounded by the wedding planning binders I had so lovingly assembled. The conversation that followed was a painful, circular dance of excuses and deflections. He was stressed about work, about the wedding budget, about Paul’s constant horror stories about marriage. He was afraid of turning into his father, who had left when Dominic was twelve.
I asked the crucial question: were his doubts about marriage in general, or about marrying me specifically? His hesitation was the answer. He admitted that a part of him wondered if we were right for each other long-term. It hurt more than the joke at the bar. Five years, and he was still wondering.
As I was packing more clothes, I remembered my meeting with Valerie. When I mentioned it to Dominic, the color drained from his face. “What did you tell her?” I asked. His evasiveness was a red flag. He urged me to hear it from her directly.
On my way to the coffee shop, Karina, Dominic’s sister, called. “Is the meeting about Maria?” she asked, then immediately tried to backtrack, her shocked silence a confirmation that she’d revealed something she shouldn’t have.
Maria. The name hit me like a physical blow.
Valerie was already waiting, her eyes red-rimmed and puffy. She got straight to the point. Dominic had developed feelings for Maria, the new project coordinator at his company. According to what he’d told his mother, nothing physical had happened, but there was an emotional connection that had him questioning everything.
The dots connected in my mind with sickening clarity. Maria had started in January. By March, Dominic was distant, his phone a constant companion. The stress I’d attributed to work now had a name.
Valerie, her own marriage having ended in a similar fashion, was telling me this because she didn’t want to see history repeat itself. She didn’t want me left in the dark while Dominic took the coward’s way out.
I left the coffee shop and drove to Lena’s, my mind a chaotic swirl of betrayal and heartbreak. I texted Dominic one line: I know about Maria. Don’t contact me again until you’re ready to tell me the complete truth. Then I blocked his number.
That night, my phone buzzed with a text from an unknown number. This is Maria. Can we meet? There’s more to the story that you should know.
We met the next day. Maria was not the villain I had imagined. She was uncomfortable, nervous, and adamant that she had no idea Dominic had feelings for her. She showed me their text history—mostly work, a few memes, nothing romantic. She had a long-term boyfriend.
Then came the second bombshell. Paul. According to Maria, he had been deliberately stirring things up, encouraging Dominic to “explore his options,” specifically mentioning her as someone who “gets Dominic better.” He had been the one making jokes at work about Dominic being trapped, feeding his insecurities.
I left that meeting with a new plan. This wasn’t just about Dominic’s weakness; it was about Paul’s toxic manipulation. I arranged a family meeting at Karina’s apartment, insisting that Paul attend.
The dinner was excruciating. We pushed pasta around our plates until Valerie finally broke the silence. I laid out what I’d learned from Maria, watching Paul’s face shift from confusion to defensiveness. He tried to claim he was just “looking out for his friend,” but Karina shut him down.
Dominic, when directly confronted, admitted Maria had just been friendly, that he’d built it into something more because he was scared. The joke at the bar, he confessed, was a cowardly attempt to seem “cool” in front of Paul.
Then, I said it quietly. “I don’t think the wedding is happening anymore.”
The room went silent. I explained that this wasn’t just about one incident. It was about months of dishonesty, of him not being truthful with me or with himself. A relationship couldn’t be built on a foundation of fear and deception.
Around midnight, we reached the inevitable conclusion. The wedding was off. It wasn’t a screaming match, just a quiet, mutual recognition that something fundamental had broken between us.
The aftermath has been a blur of logistics and grief. The venue kept our $8,000 deposit. The engagement ring sits in a box in my dresser. I’ve moved into a new, smaller apartment, one with a tiny balcony where my basil plant is already dying, but the mint is thriving. I’m choosing to see that as symbolic.
Dominic and I have spoken a few times, our conversations civil but strained. I saw him last month at a coffee shop. He looked thinner, tired. He told me he was in therapy, working on himself, on the unresolved trauma from his father, on his friendship with Paul. He didn’t ask for forgiveness, just for me to know that he was trying.
My relationship with his family has been one of the strangest, most beautiful parts of this. Valerie and Karina have remained firmly in my life, their support unwavering. They are still my family, a quiet testament to the fact that some bonds are not defined by romantic relationships.
I’m in therapy, too, learning to reclaim the parts of myself I set aside to make room for Dominic’s needs. I’ve started hiking again on Saturday mornings, an old passion I’d abandoned because he didn’t like waking up early.
Next week, I’m taking a trip. The honeymoon cottage we’d booked on the coast was non-refundable. For weeks, I couldn’t bear to even think about it. Then Lena suggested something radical. “Go anyway,” she said. “By yourself.”
The idea terrified me, then thrilled me. Ten days alone in a romantic cottage meant for two. I’ve packed three books, a new swimsuit, and a journal. I don’t know what I’ll find there. Clarity, maybe. Or just more questions. But for the first time in a long time, the future, while blurry, feels like it’s mine again. The other day, our song came on in the grocery store. Three months ago, it would have sent me into a spiral. This time, I just felt a slight twinge, like pressing on a bruise that’s mostly healed. Progress, not perfection. And for now, that’s enough.