Planning the wedding seemed like a natural next step. We chose an early-fall date, partly because Lauren wanted mountain colors in the photographs and partly because my company was slower after the summer shipping surge. We visited venues, compared caterers, debated the guest count, and discovered that two people could disagree passionately about the importance of chair covers. I enjoyed more of it than I expected. It was a complicated project with an emotionally meaningful deadline, which might as well have been designed for me.
Lauren cared about how the wedding would look and feel. She collected photographs of flowers in muted colors, found a photographer whose work looked like stills from an independent film, and wanted handwritten notes at every place setting. I cared about whether the buses would arrive before the ceremony, how much would be owed at each milestone, and who would contact the caterer if a guest's dietary requirements changed. I never regarded her contributions as less important than mine. The trouble was that when the less photogenic decisions had to be made, I was usually the only one keeping track of them.
Our wedding folder had tabs for every contract. The venue required a substantial deposit, the caterer required head-count confirmation weeks in advance, and the photographer's agreement contained provisions about cancellation that I read twice before signing. We had money set aside in a joint wedding account, though some deposits went on my credit card because the vendors needed a named cardholder. Neither of us was wealthy enough to treat those sums casually. Every payment represented hours of work we had agreed to devote to a shared future.
My mother asked at Christmas whether Lauren and I had talked about how we would handle conflict after marriage. I laughed and said we were adults, not teenagers. She did not laugh back. She said, "Being adults gives you better vocabulary, Daniel. It does not automatically make you better at listening."
At the time, I thought she was offering general motherly wisdom. Much later, I remembered how carefully she had looked at me before changing the subject.
Lauren and I had arguments that ended well. We disagreed about furniture, savings goals, whether to adopt a dog, and how much time to spend with relatives during holidays. In those conversations, we eventually reached compromises because both of us could see what the other person would lose. It made the other kind of disagreement more confusing. Whenever the subject touched Lauren's independence, public image, or friendships, she seemed to hear an accusation even when I was describing a feeling.
I suggested premarital counseling once, not because I thought our relationship was in crisis but because I had read that couples often benefited from discussing expectations with someone neutral. Lauren said she did not want us paying a stranger to tell us we were normal. I let the idea drop. That is one of the decisions I now examine without trying to put all the blame somewhere else. I had noticed a problem and decided that affection would eventually solve what conversation had not.
By late July, we were roughly eight weeks from the wedding. Save-the-dates had become invitations, relatives had booked rooms, and a large stack of small paper boxes occupied a corner of our dining room. Every evening brought another question about seating, transportation, flowers, or music. The townhouse felt crowded with decisions that should have been exciting. We were not unhappy every day, but we were tired, and tired people have less patience for conversations that require generosity.