As spring gave way to summer, being a bride slowly softened into a distant memory. Once you go through quarantine with someone, a wedding no longer seems that important.
Then hints of fall began to settle around us, and the possibility of a disastrous and potentially violent election reared its ugly head, cementing the importance of my dual citizenship between the U.S. and Ireland. I’d spent the last year loving a man who had done everything he could to make my life better during a plague. He brought me coffee and snacks when I couldn’t get out of bed, drove me across the country to be with my mother when she fell and broke her back, and even dutifully watched the crap TV shows that I turned to for comfort on my darkest days. Surely the best thing I could give him was a way out if things became even more unstable. So we decided, once again, to get married—though this time around there would be no pomp, only some circumstance.
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