He had told her things he had never told me. About his father's drinking. About the pressure he was under from his mother. About a miscarriage he'd been through with Caroline ten years earlier, a thing I learned about on the night before my wedding, from a text thread on his phone, while the man I was supposed to marry in twelve hours whistled an old song in the shower. He'd told Caroline that he wished he could stop time. He'd told her that he still dreamed about their kitchen in Brooklyn, the one they'd lived in for eight months in law school. He'd told her, four weeks before our wedding, that "a part of me is making the biggest mistake of my life tomorrow." And she had written back: "Then don't." And he had written back: "I can't. Everyone's coming. My mother would never recover."