The weekend before our flight, my sister Natalie texted me a warning.
Our parents had somehow found out our flight time and were planning to intercept us at the airport.
We went anyway because hiding felt worse than confronting it one last time.
Sure enough, my mother was standing by the departures doors when our car pulled up, scanning every arrival like a hawk.
She grabbed my arm before I could get past her, nails digging into my jacket.
Voice pitched for an audience.
“You are not getting on that plane after everything we’ve done for you.”
A security officer stepped in within seconds and asked her to let go and step back.
She did, eyes wet with furious tears, and said the words I think she genuinely believed.
“You’ll regret abandoning us.”
I adjusted my jacket.
“The only thing I regret,” I said, “is not doing this 6 years ago.”
We walked through security without looking back.
Santorini was exactly what I needed it to be.
White cliffside houses, blue domes catching the last light, no seating chart, no caterer asking about food allergies for 200 strangers, no cousin negotiating bridesmaid colors.
Just Daniel, the Aian sea, and quiet.
On what would have been the original wedding date, we married on a private terrace overlooking the caldera at sunset.
No aisle full of relatives judging the guest list.
Just a local officient, a photographer named Nikos, and vows we wrote ourselves that morning over coffee.
When it was my turn to speak, I looked at Daniel and said the truest thing I’ve ever said out loud.
“You chose me when my family only ever saw a wallet. I choose you back today and every day after this one.”
I’m not going to pretend that moment wasn’t emotional to write down even now.