When my fiancée Lori suggested displaying photographs of her late husband at our wedding, I was completely stunned.
Who in their right mind would think of including photographs of a deceased spouse on a day meant to celebrate a new beginning?
Despite my doubts, I agreed — but on one very unexpected condition.
I’m not usually one to share personal stories, but what happened made me want to tell mine.
My life was going great until that fateful conversation about our wedding.
Lori and I were discussing every detail when she suddenly asked, ‘Where do you think we should put Logan’s photo?’ as if she were talking about the centrepiece for the table.
I looked up from the guest list, completely baffled.
‘A photo of Logan? Do you mean you want your late husband to be part of our wedding ceremony?’ I asked, feeling my voice tremble.
Laurie’s eyes filled with emotion as she explained that Logan was still an important part of her life.
She wanted to honour his memory during the ceremony, place his photo on our table, and even hold it during the photo shoot.
I had always respected her grief.
She shared touching stories about him with me: how he loved hiking, how unforgettable their first anniversary in Colorado was, how his smile lit up the mountain sunrises.
I supported her, went with her to his grave on his birthday, listened attentively to each of her memories.
I always respected her grief.
She shared touching stories about him with me: how he loved hiking, how unforgettable their first anniversary in Colorado was, how his smile lit up the mountain sunrises.
I supported her, went with her to his grave on his birthday, listened attentively to her every memory.
But on our wedding day, I believed the focus should be on us, on our future, not on a ghost from her past.
That night, I struggled with my emotions for a long time.
Was I being selfish, or was I about to marry a woman who loved her memories more than me?
By morning, I had made my decision.
At breakfast, with Lori sitting across from me, I said gently,
‘Lori, I’ve thought it over, and I’m willing to agree to your request—if you agree to one condition.’
Her eyes lit up, and she asked eagerly,
‘What condition?’
I took a deep breath and replied:
‘If Logan gets a place at our wedding, then so does Beverly.’
She frowned in confusion.
‘Your ex?’ she asked.
I nodded.
“Yes. If you’re going to honour someone from your past, it’s only fair that I honour mine too.
I suggest we also include a photo of Beverly — just as a small gesture during the ceremony and our first dance.”
Laurie’s expression changed as we debated the merits of our proposals.
‘Logan didn’t choose to leave you,’ I reminded her gently.
“He was taken from you.
And like Logan, Beverly never left me — our breakup was mutual, a decision we made for the sake of our future.
I explained that while I have no problem remembering the people we once loved, our wedding day should be about our new life together.
After a long, tense conversation, Lori’s eyes filled with tears and she confessed:
‘I don’t want to forget him.’
I reached across the table and said gently:
“I’m not asking you to forget him.
I need you to be with me on this day — so that our love is the centre of attention.”
That conversation was a turning point.
Later that day, I noticed that the photo of Logan that had always sat on Laurie’s nightstand was gone.
She no longer brought up the issue of including his photo at the wedding, as if our conversation had changed her perspective.
Three months later, we got married.
Our wedding was intimate and joyful — just the two of us, making promises to build a future together.
No hidden shadows, no competing memories.
After the ceremony, Laurie told me that my “Beverly condition” had forced her to confront how much she was holding on to the past.
‘I realised that I was asking you to marry me and my memories,’ she confessed.
‘It wasn’t fair.’
I learned an important lesson from this experience:
Sometimes loving someone means helping them see when they are holding on too tightly to what is gone, to make room for new love.
Today, Laurie still keeps a small photograph of Logan in her desk drawer and sometimes tells stories about him, but I know we no longer compete with the memory.
Our wedding day — and every day since — belongs only to us.
