Page 4 of My Only

Ayla

The moment my mother and I stepped onto the aisle, it felt like stepping into a dream. The ocean waves rolled in soft harmony beneath a steel drum band playing a reggae rendition of Endless Love.

And when Hassani and I locked eyes, I had to inhale a deep breath to keep it together.

My mother sniffled beside me, and I swear it only took one glance from me for her to start crying the cry she’d been holding in all over again.

I couldn’t help but snort a laugh at her. “Mama, please.”

“I’m sorry, beloved.” She dabbed at her eyes while looking away.

She’d been crying all morning. If I’m being honest, she’d been crying since we landed in Montego Bay, Jamaica.

My mother designed and sewed wedding dresses for a living, so you’d think she’d be used to the emotional weight of weddings. But I guess because this one was her daughter’s, it just hit differently.

I never imagined my wedding would happen like this—spontaneous, breathtaking, and so completely us. But when Hassani looked at me one night and said, “Let’s just do it,” I knew there was no other way.

“What?” I asked, rolling over to face him in bed.

It had been four years since we made things official. Two years since he proposed—right after I stepped out of the shower, fresh from our visit to the National September 11 Memorial & Museum. But between Hassani’s grueling architecture projects and the clients who kept recommending him to other entrepreneurs, his work schedule was rarely free.

We’d agreed that once his latest project wrapped up, we would start planning our wedding. Our parents had grown tired of waiting and brought it up every chance they got.

“Let’s just get married in May,” he said.

“That’s in two months.”

He smiled. “I know.”

I giggled. “I remember the last time you said ‘let’s just do it’ and proposed we get married in a month. That was two years ago.”

And part of me was grateful we hadn’t rushed it. But saying yes to that leap, even back then, had built a deeper trust between us—one that only grew stronger over time.

“That’s why I’m saying let’s just do it now… but this time, for real.” His smile grew wider. “Look, work’s always going to be work. And while I’m grateful for the projects coming in, I’m tired of waiting to say ‘I do.’”

I smiled back, shaking my head. “Where the hell are we going to get married in two months?”

Jamaica.

I had never been to the island, but both of Hassani’s parents were born and raised there.

He promised it would be the perfect setting for our nuptials—stunning, intimate, and something we could pull off in little time.

“You two are like a getaway, Favorite Girl,” my Aunt Laurie had said when I told her where we’d be having the wedding. “So, it makes total sense to have a destination wedding.”

She was the first person I spotted as my mother and I stepped onto the aisle. Aunt Laurie dabbed at her eyes with a tissue, her smile so grand it made me stutter a breath.

I had never imagined my wedding. Never saw myself in a big, puffy dress. A traditional church wedding didn’t feel right for me. So a destination wedding?

That made sense.

“You’ve been patient for way too long,” Hassani had told me once we agreed to say our vows in Jamaica. “And I’m ready to make you Mrs. Franklin like yesterday.”

“Like yesterday” was today.

On a serene beach at sunset, on an aisle lined with colorful tropical flowers—hibiscus, orchids—lit by soft lanterns glowing all around us as the sun dipped below the horizon, I walked toward my future. Toward a waiting Hassani and our officiant, my arm looped through my mother’s.

What no one knew was that this morning, I cried like I hadn’t cried in a while.

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