Our wedding day was the kind you dream about. Soft music, candlelight flickering across smiling faces, the scent of roses lingering in the air. My husband, David, looked at me like I was his whole world. My mother cried during the vows, my best friend toasted to forever, and for a few fleeting hours, it truly felt like it would be. The heartbreaks, the waiting, the doubts — they had all led to this. I believed I was finally home

David and I had known each other for years. Ours wasn’t a whirlwind romance but a slow, steady climb — built on laughter, friendship, and late-night talks that turned into something deeper. He was my constant. My calm. And as the music played that night, as we swayed through our first dance, I thought nothing could shake that. The song was Can’t Help Falling in Love. I remember thinking that the words had never felt truer.

He leaned close, brushed a strand of hair from my face, and whispered against my ear, “You look beautiful as always, Amy.”
My name isn’t Amy.
At first, I thought I misheard him. The music was loud, people were clapping, cameras were flashing. But the moment I saw his expression — the sudden stillness, the way the color drained from his face — I knew I hadn’t imagined it. The name hung between us like a crack in glass, small but spreading.

The rest of the night passed in a blur. I smiled, laughed, danced — all on autopilot. But deep down, a voice kept whispering: Who is Amy?
I didn’t ask that night. I wanted to believe it was a mistake — nerves, exhaustion, a harmless slip of the tongue. But the truth has a way of surfacing no matter how hard you try to bury it.
Over the following weeks, I saw changes in him. Subtle, almost invisible — but real. He’d stay up late, glued to his phone. His smile became distant, his words distracted. When I finally asked, gently, who Amy was, he said she was “no one.” A colleague from years ago. He even laughed, brushed it off, and told me I was overthinking.