When my fiancée brought up the idea of displaying photos of her late husband at our wedding, I was taken aback. Who thinks to include images of a deceased spouse at a celebration of a new marriage? Still, I agreed — but only under one surprising condition.
Lori and I have been together for three years, and we got engaged six months ago. Everything had felt right—until that one conversation changed everything.
We were casually discussing wedding details when she asked, “Where do you think Logan’s picture should go?”
I thought I misheard and asked her to explain.
She told me she wanted to include her late husband’s photo in the ceremony. Not just a small tribute — she wanted one of her bridesmaids to carry his photo down the aisle, place it on our head table, and for her to pose with it in most of our wedding photos.
I was stunned. Was I really being asked to share my wedding day with her late husband?
But after thinking it over for a bit, I replied, “Okay, I agree, but with one condition.”
Everything in my life was going smoothly—until one day, during a conversation with Lori about our wedding plans, she said something that made me seriously question whether I was about to marry the right person.
But let me take a step back.
I work as a business analyst at one of the city’s leading firms. I’ve been with the company for four years now, and my career is on a solid path. One of the things I enjoy most about my job is that it gives me the chance to interact with people from all walks of life, each bringing their own unique perspective.
Actually, it was through this job that I met Lori.
We both joined the company around the same time and ended up on the same project team. We hit it off almost immediately.
Lori was sharp, witty, and had a refreshing way of tackling problems that made even tough situations seem manageable. We started out as coworkers, became good friends, and before long, our relationship evolved into something deeper.
“Brandon, can you review these numbers before the meeting?” she’d ask, sliding a folder across my desk with that smile that always made me forget what I was doing.
“Only if you have coffee with me afterward,” I’d reply, and she’d pretend to think about it before agreeing.
Our coffee breaks gradually turned into lunch dates, then dinners—and before I realized it, we were officially together. Talking to her was effortless, and no one could make me laugh the way she did.
Early on in our relationship, Lori opened up to me about her late husband, Logan. They had been married for two years before he tragically passed away in a car accident four years ago. Whenever she spoke about him, the sorrow in her eyes was unmistakable, and I truly respected how much he had meant to her.
“He loved hiking,” she told me once during dinner. “We went to Colorado for our first anniversary, and he insisted on climbing that ridiculous mountain at dawn.”
“Was it worth it?” I asked.
“The views were amazing,” she said, her eyes distant. “But mostly I remember how happy he looked when we reached the top.”
It felt completely normal for her to talk about him—he had been a significant part of her life, and reminiscing seemed to be her way of processing the loss. I never felt intimidated by someone who was no longer alive.
Or at least, that’s what I kept telling myself.
Six months ago, I asked her to marry me. We were dining at her favorite restaurant, and I had the ring in my pocket the entire evening, just waiting for the perfect moment to pop the question
“Lori,” I said, taking her hand across the table, “these past few years have been the happiest of my life. Will you marry me?
Her eyes filled with tears.
“Yes,” she whispered. “Yes, of course.”
Everything had been going smoothly until last week. We were going over the wedding plans at the kitchen table, reviewing the seating arrangements and floral decorations.
“Where do you think Logan’s portrait could go?” Lori asked casually, as if she were asking about the placement of a centerpiece.
I looked up from the guest list I was reviewing. “What do you mean?”
“Logan’s picture,” she repeated, furrowing her brow slightly. “For the wedding. I thought one of my bridesmaids could hold his photo during the ceremony.”
I put down my pen. “Hold his portrait during the ceremony?”
“Yes, and I’d like to have his picture on our table. And when we take pictures, I want to have his photo in most of them.”
I stared at her, waiting for her to laugh and tell me she was joking. She didn’t.
“Lori,” I said carefully, “are you saying you want your late husband to be part of our wedding day?”
“Of course,” she replied. “He’s still important to me, Brandon. I can’t pretend he never existed.”
I sat back in my chair, truly stunned.
Was I really going to share my wedding day with her late husband? The day that was supposed to be about us, our future, and our love story… Was I supposed to make space for a ghost?
“Don’t you think this is a little… unusual?” I asked, trying to keep my tone calm.
“I don’t see why,” she replied, her tone growing more defensive. “A lot of people honor their deceased loved ones at their weddings.”
“Yes, with a candle or a mention in the program,” I retorted. “Not making them present throughout the ceremony and having them appear in our wedding photos. This isn’t a memorial service. It’s our wedding day.”
“You’re being insensitive,” she shot back. “Logan was a huge part of my life.”
“And I’ve respected that from day one,” I replied. “I’ve listened to all the stories, seen all the photos, and even visited his grave with you on his birthday. But our wedding day should be about us. About our beginning. Not about your past.”
We went back and forth like that for hours. Neither of us was willing to give in. Finally, I threw my hands up in surrender.
“Look, I don’t want to fight about this tonight. Let me think about it, okay? It’s a big decision.”
She gave a small nod, but the tension in her jaw made it clear she was upset. That night, we went to bed wrapped in a heavy, uneasy silence.
I spent the rest of the night tangled in my thoughts. Was I thinking only of myself? Was this her way of dealing with her grief? Or was I engaged to someone still holding on to the memory of another?
By the time morning came, I knew what I had to do.
I was already sitting at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee when Lori came down. She looked exhausted, like sleep had barely touched her.
“Good morning,” she said cautiously, pouring herself some coffee.
“Good morning,” I replied. I waited for her to sit down across from me. “Lori, I’ve thought about it, and I’ll agree to your request. But with one condition.”
“Thank you, Brandon,” she said with a huge smile. “What’s the condition?”
I took a deep breath. “If Logan can be at our wedding, then Beverly can be too.”
Lori frowned. “Who is Beverly?”
She stared at me with wide eyes.
I nodded. “If you can honor the man you loved before me, it’s only fair that I can do the same. Maybe we can put her picture next to Logan’s. And for the ceremony, I can have one of my groomsmen hold a photo of hers as well. And during our first dance, I’d love to have her photo close to my heart.
“But… that’s completely different,” she stammered.
“Is it? Why?” I asked. “Because you were married to Logan and Beverly and I were just dating? Or because Logan passed away and Beverly and I broke up? What’s the difference, really?”
“It’s not the same at all!” Lori insisted. “Logan didn’t choose to leave me. He was taken from me.”
“So, it’s about honoring someone who didn’t want to leave you,” I said calmly. “But Beverly didn’t want to leave me either. We broke up because she moved across the country to get her dream job. Neither of us wanted it to end.”
She fell silent, staring at her coffee cup as if it held the answers.
I stood up and placed my cup in the sink. “Lori, I love you. But if you’re not ready to let go of Logan enough to celebrate our wedding instead of a stranger’s funeral… then maybe you’re not ready to be my wife.”
She looked at me, her eyes shimmering with tears. “That’s not fair.”
“Isn’t it?” I leaned against the counter. “Lori, you’ve been talking about Logan since the day we met. At first, I didn’t mind. I understood that he was an important part of your life. But it’s been four years since he passed, and sometimes I feel like he’s still more present in your life than I am.”
“That’s not true,” she protested weakly.
“You keep his photo next to our bed. You visit his grave every month. You compare restaurant meals to the ones he would have liked. You even call his parents every Sunday,” I said gently. “I’ve never complained about any of that because I know how much you loved him. But our wedding day? That should be for starting our life together.”
A tear slid down her cheek. “I don’t want to forget him.”
“Nobody’s asking you to forget him,” I said, kneeling beside her chair. “But you can’t keep one foot in the past if you want to move forward with me. You have to let him go, at least enough to make room for us.”
She said nothing, just stared at her hands in her lap.
For the rest of the day, we didn’t talk much. I gave her space, working late at the office and picking up takeout on my way home. But that night, I noticed something. The photo of Logan that had always been on her nightstand? It was gone.
We didn’t talk about it. She never brought up having his photo at our wedding again. It was as if the conversation had never happened.
Three months later, we got married.
And on our wedding day, it was just the two of us making promises to each other. No ghosts between us.
Then, Lori told me that my “Beverly condition” had forced her to see how unfair she had been. “I realized I was asking you to marry both me and my memories,” she said. “That wasn’t right.”
I learned something important from all this: Sometimes, loving someone means helping them see when they’re stuck in the past.
And sometimes, the kindest thing you can do is hold up a mirror so they can see it for themselves.
Moving forward doesn’t mean forgetting the people we’ve loved. It just means making room in our hearts for a new love to grow.
Lori still keeps a small photo of Logan in her desk drawer and even sometimes tells me stories about him.
Honestly, I don’t mind now because I know I no longer compete with a memory.
