I ended my engagement after my fiancée asked for a break to see if her ex still meant something to her. She thought I would sit and wait inside the life we had spent four years building — until three days later, her mother called me, and Tessa finally realized I was never her backup plan.

She chose curtains for the living room and argued that the guest room needed a “real personality.” She hung those decorative signs she liked, the kind that said things like “Live, Laugh, Love” in cursive, and even though I teased her for it, I let them stay. She picked out throw pillows that looked nice but were impossible to nap on. She put a small herb planter by the kitchen window and forgot to water it half the time, so I did it for her.

That was our life. Ordinary, a little messy, sometimes tiring, but real. We talked about marriage for a long time before I proposed.

We talked about it the way American couples do when they’re trying to sound casual about something that will change everything. We discussed money while folding laundry. We talked about kids while standing in line at the grocery store.

We debated whether we wanted a big wedding or something quiet while driving past churches and event barns on Sunday afternoons. Then, last year, I proposed. It wasn’t fancy.