She couldn't sleep. The envelope resting on the bedside table acted as an ominous presence. It was four in the morning. She was still fully dressed, sitting on the edge of her bed. The TV paid re-runs of Friends in the background, and she tried not to think about the envelope. She could feel it, the weight of it in her hands. The weight of the situation on her shoulders and crammed into one tiny piece of paper.

She knew what was in it. It wasn't a surprise. But seeing their marriage license and the smaller, white envelope at the bottom labeled "$200 Emergency Wedding Fund," it all felt real.

The whole idea of an emergency plan was suggested by her Priest during her and Jonathan's pre-marital counseling. She wasn't Catholic and neither was Jonathan, but her family was, so naturally, she found herself sitting in the Priest's office every Wednesday for three months discussing the start of her "godly" marriage. She didn't mind the counseling, to be honest. She was a planner by heart, while Jonathan was more of a "doer." There was comfort in forcing him to plan alongside her in the presence of a respected official.

When her father fell ill for the fourth time that year, he was hospitalized for over a month. During this time, her mother spent hours in counseling with the Priest for her own reasons, and though Eleanor felt it was some break of "priest-Christian confidentiality," he often brought up her father in their pre-marriage meetings. For the first month of his hospitalization, she could evade the questions. "He's coming home soon. His blood pressure is normal, and the tumor is visibly shrinking." She often repeated these exact words multiple times a day to anyone who expressed pity. Her father was the strongest man she knew. He'd beat cancer before, and he was sure as hell going to do it again.

The last day of her father's second month in the hospital, Father Price suggested that they create an alternate plan, an "emergency wedding plan." He claimed he was impressed with their counseling, but with their wedding being only weeks away, he was afraid, if the worst happened, their marriage would be postponed indefinitely. This type of planning did not appeal to her. She didn't want to think about walking down the aisle without her father.

In the end, she had agreed to create a basic plan. A simple plan. If her father could not be at her wedding, whether, she told herself, it be because he was simply bed-ridden or, the option she did not like to dwell on, had passed, then they would elope. The plan was simple, lacking in detail because she believed it to be completely unnecessary.

As her father's two months of hospitalization turned to three and finally to hospice, she began to filter her energy into planning this alternative wedding. It didn't bother her. She distanced herself from it, turning it into a game. She would sit by her father's bedside, looking at hotels, rental car companies, flowers, and venues. Her father was an English professor, and from a young age, he taught her the importance of grammatically correct advertising. It became a game between the two of them.

"We provide better service then our surrounding competitors." She read part of an online florist's description of their work.

Her father smiled, his lips dry and cracking. "Then what?"

"I wonder if they'd give me a discount if I pointed out their mistake. Save them some face."

She loved to see her father smile.

She looked at the envelope again. She felt guilty. The last six months of her father's life, in her memory, would always be full of planning, organizing, and determining her future after his death. She was selfish for focusing on herself while her father deteriorated. For spending hours at his bedside talking about a future, he would never have a chance to experience. She was selfish for excluding her family from this life-changing, future-deciding event and for leaving nothing behind but a wimpy note of explanation. She was selfish for leaving her mother alone tonight for the first time in years. Everything about this plan was selfish.

She felt sick. She had to leave, but every cab within a mile was probably overrun by drunken teenagers. How was she going to get home? What was she going to tell people? What would she tell Jonathan? The thought overwhelmed her. Her entire life she'd spent planning her future, attempting to stay in control. No matter the obstacle, she'd always found some way to create a better future around it. Now, she couldn't see a future anymore.

Without thinking, she scrambled around the room and gathered her things, shoving them into the small bag. She went to grab the garment bag from the closet, but couldn't bring herself to grasp it. She wanted to forget about all of this. She wanted to be at home, in bed next to her mom, like she always was after an upsetting day.

The tears flowed freely from the corners of her eyes, trickled down her cheeks, and collected on the front of her shirt. She was beyond reason, beyond logic. She managed to scribble, "I'm sorry," on a piece of paper before pushing it softly under Jonathan's door. This isn't what she wanted. She wanted to marry him, but she couldn't do it like this. Honestly, she didn't know if she could stomach it at all. Each time she thought of the ceremony, honeymoon, or even their life together, feelings of anger, shame, and embarrassment overtook her. She knew he would probably hate her, but this was the final selfish liberty she was willing to take.

The rain fell heavily on the pavement as she stumbled to the bus stop across the street. It soaked her hair and dripped down her forehead. It connected with the salt water dripping from her eyes and puddled in the dips of her collarbone. It felt good…strangely. She felt as if the world were crying with her.