I never had a family.

I grew up in a shelter, surrounded by kids who, like me, had been left behind. Some had parents who didn't want them. Others had parents who couldn't keep them. I never knew which one was true for me.

All I knew was that when I was a baby, someone left me on the shelter's doorstep. No note. No explanation. Just… gone.

For a long time, I told myself it didn't matter.

I worked hard. I studied harder. I earned a scholarship to college. I built a future with my own two hands.

Then I met Daniel. He was two years younger, always smiling, always surrounded by people. I was used to keeping my distance, but Daniel had a way of getting past every wall I built.

One day, in the library, he sat down across from me and grinned.

"You always look so serious."

I barely looked up. "I'm studying."

"So am I," he said, shutting his book. "Studying you."

I rolled my eyes. "Wow. That was terrible."

He just laughed. And from that day on, he never really left my side.

Six months later, he proposed. I hesitated.

Marriage meant trusting someone completely. Depending on them. I had never depended on anyone before.

But when I looked into Daniel's eyes, I saw something I'd never had — a future with someone who would always stay.

So I said yes.

The wedding was like something out of a dream.

The church was beautiful — soft candlelight, white roses everywhere. The air smelled like vanilla and fresh flowers.

At the reception, there was laughter, music, dancing. Daniel's father gave a toast, his deep voice full of pride. "To my son and his beautiful bride," he said, lifting his glass. "May your love be strong, your home be warm, and your future be bright."

I smiled, but the person I really wanted to see was Mrs. Reynolds.

She had been the closest thing I'd ever had to a mother. I found her sitting in the corner, watching me with soft eyes.

"You clean up nice, kid," she said with a chuckle.

That night, Daniel and I arrived at our hotel suite.