My Husband Was Always Way Hotter than Me – Then I Found the Letter He Wrote Before Our Wedding
“That she’d gotten it backward.”
He looked directly at me.
“I told her that being with you had made me wonder whether I was good enough for you.”
My eyes burned.
“Luke.”
“It’s true.”
He pointed toward the letter.
“That’s why I wrote it. I realized there was still something about us you didn’t know, and I didn’t want to marry you with a secret between us.”
“Then why didn’t you give it to me?”
His shoulders dropped.
“I planned to.”
On the morning of our wedding, he had apparently seen me briefly before the ceremony.
I had been overwhelmed, nervous, and still grieving the fact that my sister was not there.
Luke had the letter with him, but he imagined handing me several pages beginning with a confession that our first meeting had not been accidental.
“I lost my nerve,” he admitted. “I told myself I’d explain after the wedding.”
“And then?”
“Then we got married. We traveled. We came home. Life happened.”
He looked embarrassed.
“At some point, the letter got packed away with everything else.”
I shook my head.
“You idiot.”
“I know.”
“Your mother knew?”
“She knew I’d seen you before.”
“And all those times she acted like she couldn’t understand why you were with me?”
Luke’s jaw tightened.
“That’s one of the things I regret.”
“What?”
“Not stopping her sooner.”
He explained that after the dinner, when Diane asked whether he was “sure” about our relationship, he confronted her.
After we became engaged and her comments continued, he drew a harder line.
“If she couldn’t respect you, she wasn’t going to have much access to our life.”
I remembered how suddenly Diane’s comments had become less frequent.
Now I understood why.
“You should have told me.”
“You’re right.”
“You should have told me about the bakery too.”
“You’re right about that.”
I stared at him.
“You’re making this argument very difficult.”
He smiled.
“I’ve been married long enough to know when I’m wrong.”
I laughed despite myself.
Then, I noticed a paragraph near the end of the letter.
Luke had written about my sister.
He wrote about watching me rearrange my life whenever she needed me and how fiercely I loved her.
My throat tightened.
“You wrote about her.”
Luke’s expression softened.
“You loved her.”
After she died, he had cooked for me, answered phone calls, driven me places, and sat beside me while I cried through the night.
“Why did you stay through all of that?” I asked.
