I thought our engagement dinner would be the happiest night of my life. Ben stood to make a toast, pulled out a gift box—and a framed photo of his late wife, Natalie. Then he handed me her wedding veil. “I want you to wear this on our big day,” he said, smiling. I sat frozen, humiliated in front of everyone.

Ben didn’t understand why I was upset. “It’s just fabric,” he argued. But to me, it was a symbol of everything I’d been quietly accepting—her photos in every room, her blanket on our bed, her name always between us. “You don’t want a wife,” I told him, “you want a replacement.” And then I left.

Days later, at a lakeside cabin, I finally felt like myself again. Ben begged me to come back, but I realized something: love shouldn’t feel like trying to outshine a memory. I wasn’t angry anymore. I was just done living in someone else’s shadow.

Six months later, I’m living alone, in a space that’s all mine. No borrowed memories. No ghosts. Just Olivia. I’m still learning who she is—but for the first time, I feel whole. If someone ever loves me again, it’ll be for me. Not for who I remind them of.