February 14, 1992 — He proposed on Valentine’s Day, one year ago today. After a candlelit dinner at our favorite restaurant along the sea in South Beach, he handed me a homemade valentine. A map of our Miami apartment was tucked inside. Then, he kissed me softly on the lips before sending me off to look for the treasure.
I found it inside a pink velvet box that was hidden under one of his neatly folded navy blue socks. A big, shiny round diamond mounted on a thin gold band sparkled up at me. From the moment he slipped it on my finger, I sparkled, too.
My little girl dream of discovering the prince who would carry me to the altar became my reality. Each day after, I would rub the band sitting in the palm of my hand, and it felt so very real. He was an artist, after all. A man who made magic with his imagination. I felt our love would last forever.
We set the wedding for August 11. Six months to plan and prepare. I happily trotted off to buy a gorgeous wedding gown that romantically kissed the floor as I walked, arranged the spot where we’d wed, and hired a caterer, and found a rabbi who would marry a Jew and a Southern Baptist.
We made the invitations ourselves. In wedding text font, we invited his relatives from Kentucky, mine from Philadelphia, and all of our friends in between. We rolled each piece of fancy paper into a scroll and tied it with a red ribbon. He took the mass of them off to the post office, choosing the LOVE stamp as postage.
At the jewelry shop, we picked out his and hers matching wedding bands of gold. I inscribed his: “All my love, always.” Inside mine he wrote, “Now there is Hope in my life.”
It was on a sunny Saturday in late July, a week after my bridal shower, that the fairy tale started to melt. I had gone out with my best friend Kevin to buy $1000 worth of champagne and hors d’oeuvres at Costco for our perfectly elegant do-it-yourself reception.
When I got home, a three-page letter scribbled on loose-leaf paper greeted me instead of my fiancé.
The note said he was sorry. That he just couldn’t go through with it. All this hurt him, too, he said. But it just wasn’t going to work out. It wasn’t what he wanted. I wasn’t what he wanted. He signed it, with love.
I fell to the floor clutching the pages. I looked down at my ring, still sparkling. And I took it off. What had I done? What had I said? Had I made love to him for the last time? Would I ever see him again? Please, let this be a nightmare that I’d wake up from. Someone, please wake me up. Please.
He returned a few hours later and quietly unpacked the suitcase he’d taken. He said he was so confused, wasn’t sure what he really wanted. Maybe it was just cold feet. I walked numbly through the next two days of his indecision, not realizing I had a decision to make, too.
Ultimately, it was he who chose. The verdict came the Wednesday night before the Saturday wedding — the evening my mother and sister flew into town. Unaware of the tribulation, Mom unpacked a tiny Lladro bride and groom statue to top the wedding cake, and presented me with a lovely negligee for me for the wedding night. She kissed us both before heading to her hotel room.
I sat down to make placecards for the rehearsal dinner, still holding on to a whisper of hope. He was standing by the window watching our apartment lights shine on Biscayne Bay. Speaking to my reflection, he made his declaration: “I can’t marry you. I just can’t.”
I remember trying to take one breath at a time, figuring I’d eventually remember how to do it without thinking. The room went silent, except for the sound of the door closing behind him.
I think I slept that night, but I can’t remember. In a trance the next morning, I called off the plans that had taken six months to organize. Amazingly, that took less than 30 minutes. Then I packed.
The dishes. Which ones were mine? And the books. Why hadn’t I marked my name inside the covers? No matter. Nothing seemed to matter just then.
Before I left our apartment for the last time, I took my turn to write a note. I told him I was sorry, too. That I still didn’t understand, really, but I asked him to remember me with love, and remember what Dylan Thomas said: “Though lovers be lost love shall not.” I’ll be remembering that too, I wrote.
I wonder now if the words I’d write today would be the same sweet ones I left him with so many months ago. Do I really forgive him for breaking my heart and his promise? Will I ever credit him for the courage it took to back out instead of going through with a marriage he didn’t want?
I do know that it has gotten easier now that I have moved away from the place where the possibility of seeing him would haunt and taunt me. Instead of basking in the breeze of warm Miami nights, I now spend sleepless night jogging along the Reflecting Pond in downtown Washington, DC. Graduate school has been a salvation. In moments of silence, I wrestle with myself, trying to understand how I got to this place — and where I want to go next.
When sleep comes, he often creeps into my dreams. It is always the same dream. “Why?” I ask. But before he answers, I awake.
All the self-help books and trying-to-help friends talk about closure. For a while, I thought about throwing his damn engagement ring down the toilet. Instead, I traded it in for the sleek and efficient Macintosh Classic II on which I’m typing out this account. Poetic justice seems to be the only justice I’m going to get.
I have probably spent more than enough time trying to understand it all. I don’t. I should have seen the signs, should have known he was unhappy. How could I have lived with him for two years without suspecting his ambivalence? How can I ever trust anyone again? How can I ever trust myself again?
I know, deep down, that I will.
I also know that I will survive this experience, and learn from one of those horribly wonderful life lessons that you get when you are too stubborn to know better. The next time around, I tell myself, I will be more grounded in reality and less dreamy. Maybe it is good to have doubts. Maybe that’s what it means to be a grown-up. Too bad really.
I am guessing there will always be a part of me that wants to find the Prince Charming who will offer forever—and mean it.
But today, on the anniversary of the day we were to stand at the alter and promise forever, I hold onto the still lovely memory of a homemade card with a map, and a treasure waiting to be found.
September 2020: A Note from Hope — When this article was published, oh so long ago, I was the assistant editor for special publications at The Miami Herald (1987-1988). It was my second job as a professional reporter, and despite the pain I was feeling at the time, I was thrilled to have this article poignantly published in Tropic magazine on February 14, 1992.
My editor at the time was the amazing Tom Schroder, who went on to become the editor the Washington Post Magazine, and an author of many books that I had the privilege of reviewing and featuring in the online magazine I created in 2010.
At the risk of sharing how totally pathetic my love life has been, I decided it was important to post this love story. I don’t know how many people get left a the altar (actually I do, thanks to this New York Times article: 100,000) — but I can tell you that it flat out sucks. But I can also tell you this: Honey, be grateful he said no 3 days before the wedding rather than three days after.
In fact, I met my husband 3 months — almost to the day — of when I was scheduled to wed the “Prince of Darkness.” That’s actually the title that Tom gave the article. If I had been writing the headline and subhead it might have been something like, “Thank you for letting me go: It just would have been nice if you’d done it BEFORE you proposed.” And yes, there may have been a few profanities used.
Truth be told, and the reason I’m sharing this story here, is that shit happens. We fall in love, hope for the best, and as my dear friend Lisa says, “It’s going to end one of two ways: It’ll work out, or it won’t. End of story.”
So, the end of my story is still to be written. I have loved four men in my life so far. Those relationships lasted years, decades with my husband, and they were intense and deep. So as I ended all those years ago when this relationship ended in tears — the treasure is still waiting to be found. Love, Hope
