I cancelled my wedding three weeks before I was meant to walk down the aisle, and for a long time people filled in the blanks with whatever story suited them. Some said there must have been another man. Some said I got cold feet. My aunt told half of Clontarf that I had “always been a bit dramatic,” which was almost funny because I had spent thirty-two years being the least dramatic person in every room.
The truth was quieter, and maybe that is why it took me so long to say it out loud. I cancelled my wedding because one morning in Dublin City Centre, holding a paper bag with my altered dress inside it, I realised I had planned an entire future around not disappointing anyone except myself.
His name was Eoin. He was kind, or at least he could be. He remembered my coffee order, held doors open, sent flowers to my office on bad days, and spoke to my father about hurling like he had been born into our family. We met in a pub near Temple Bar after a work leaving do, both of us pretending we had not stayed out too late for a Tuesday. By the end of that night, I had told him about my mother’s illness, my fear of birds, and the fact that I used to sit on the top deck of the 46A just to feel like I was going somewhere important.
For the first year, loving him felt easy. We walked along the canal in Portobello, ate chips on the wall outside Grogan’s, and took photographs we never printed. When he proposed in St Stephen’s Green, by the lake with the ducks terrifying me from a respectful distance, I cried before he even opened the box. Strangers clapped. My mother, who had been getting weaker by then, said it was the best news she had heard all year.
After that, the wedding seemed to grow legs of its own. The venue, the band, the flowers, the guest list, the seating chart that caused two separate family rows. Eoin wanted a big day. My mother wanted to see me in white. His parents wanted a church. My father wanted “no nonsense.” I wanted, if I was honest, a registry office and lunch somewhere warm, maybe with twelve people and no speeches. But every time I said that, someone looked wounded, so I folded myself smaller and called it compromise.
The strange thing about losing yourself is that it does not happen in one grand moment. It happens in tiny yeses. Yes, I’ll invite your boss. Yes, I’ll change the song. Yes, I’ll wear my hair up. Yes, we can move to Maynooth after the wedding because your commute matters more. Yes, I can stop taking that evening course because money will be tight. Yes, yes, yes, until the word “no” feels like a locked door in your own mouth.
The week it happened, I had been to the dress shop near South William Street for the final fitting. The dress was beautiful, expensive, and completely wrong for me. It had lace sleeves and a high neck, because my mother said it was elegant and Eoin said it looked “proper.” I looked at myself in the mirror and saw a woman dressed as someone else’s good idea.
After the fitting, I walked to a café off Grafton Street and sat outside even though it was too cold. My phone kept buzzing. Eoin wanted to know if I had confirmed the priest’s timing. My sister wanted to know if I had sorted the hotel rooms. The florist wanted final payment. Then a message came from Eoin that said, “Can you please not start any emotional conversations tonight? I’m wrecked.”
I stared at that sentence for a long time. It was not cruel in the way people expect cruelty to announce itself. It was not shouting or betrayal or a slammed door. But it summed up the shape of our life together. My feelings were appointments to be rescheduled. My worries were weather to wait out. My unhappiness was inconvenient unless it could be solved quickly and politely.
I thought about the night before, when I had told him I felt scared and he had laughed softly, not unkindly, and said, “Everyone feels scared before a wedding.” I said it was more than that. He kissed my forehead and told me I was overthinking. Then he turned on the television.
In the café, I rang my mother. I expected her to tell me to breathe, to get through it, to remember how much had been paid. Instead, when she answered, I started crying so hard I
Note: Please be aware that these are written in confidentiality and there is not reference or mention of any real people and their sentiments here. Every incident and Story tends to be emotional so please read at your own emotional risk. Website is not responsible for anything related. HumansofDublin.io is not related to the photography project HumansofDublin by Peter Varga
