After three months, Emily finally whispered yes.
Their wedding was small, nothing extravagant—just a backyard with strings of yellow lights and wildflowers picked from the fields. Emily sat in her chair wearing a simple white dress, her hands trembling as Michael held them tightly.
That night, he gently carried her into their room. His touch wasn’t rushed, not hungry, but careful—helping her change into softer clothes. As he slid the dress from her shoulders, his eyes froze.
On the left side of her chest, he saw a tattoo: delicate French words etched above a fragile, leafless tree sprouting fresh shoots.
Michael’s throat tightened. He had studied construction in France years ago, so he understood instantly. Tears blurred his vision as he traced the ink with his fingertips.
Emily blushed, pulling the blanket up, but he gently held her hand. “When did you get this?”
“After the accident,” she muttered.
“I thought I’d lost everything. My boyfriend left, friends drifted away, even my relatives pulled back. For a while, I didn’t want to live. But one day, I saw my mother struggling to push my wheelchair just to buy medicine. I realized… as long as I can breathe, I’m still alive. I have to live—for her, and for myself.”
Michael said nothing. He only held her close, because no words could match the strength of the woman in his arms. She didn’t need pity. She deserved admiration.
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