I looked up at my little sister. I had my wedding dress bunched up around my thighs and I was squatting on the toilet in my aunt’s house.
“Don’t ever do this,” I said.
Getting married, the actual wedding part, was painful for me.
Maybe it was because I was marrying the wrong man or maybe it’s because I planned my wedding in three days (a must to meet my French Canadian boyfriend’s expiration date for his time in the US.)
I was only 25-years-old. One year later I would be pregnant at just 26-years-old and wishing I had never done what I was about to do.
“Ever,” I said sternly.
She looked at me with her mouth gaping and nodded. [click to continue…]
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