There were long nights with spreadsheets open on my laptop while Chase, my fiancé, sat across from me, rubbing his eyes and saying, “If we move this number here, does it still work?” We had endless conversations about budgets that made my head ache, the kind where you stare at the ceiling afterward and wonder how anyone ever affords anything.
On Saturdays, while everyone else was sleeping in or posting brunch photos, we were driving from venue to venue, sitting in folding chairs, and nodding politely as coordinators talked about deposits and policies.
“I just want it to feel right,” I kept saying.
“And not bankrupt us,” Chase added every time, half-joking but not really.
We wanted everything to be perfect because nothing in our lives had ever come easily. We both worked full-time and came from families where money was always discussed in careful whispers, usually behind closed doors. We knew what it felt like to want something and be told it wasn’t practical.
So we agreed early on that if we were going to do this, we’d do it right. That meant hardcore saving. We skipped vacations when our friends went away. We turned down nights out with excuses that got thinner every time. “Next time,” we said so often it became a habit. We said “no” more than “yes,” even when it stung.
When we finally booked the countryside venue with the open lawn, the big oak trees, and the pool tucked behind the guest house, I sat in the car afterward and cried. Chase reached over and squeezed my hand.
“We did it,” he said quietly.
