When the Toasts Fade: My American Love Story
“So, Emily, when’s your turn?”
The question dropped like a stone in the middle of the office breakroom, right as I sipped my lukewarm coffee. Halina, my boss, was already raising her glass of champagne, toasting yet another colleague’s engagement. Her smile was warm but her eyes—her eyes searched mine with that familiar, pitying twinkle. All heads turned. I felt my cheeks flush, the echo of laughter from the other side of the room bouncing off the walls, ricocheting through the hollow space inside my chest.
“Guess I’ll have to buy another cat if you all keep getting married,” I joked, forcing a laugh that sounded brittle, even to me.
Tania, with her riotous curls and bigger-than-life personality, swooped in. “Don’t listen to them, Em. Diamonds are forever! You deserve the best.”
But the truth was, as the champagne flutes clinked and congratulations filled the air, I felt nothing but the slow ache of envy gnawing at my insides.
At 29, I owned my own condo in a suburb outside Columbus, Ohio. My parents, both high school teachers, had never put pressure on me to settle down. But every Christmas, my mom’s eyes would linger on my left hand, a silent wish shimmering beneath her polite smile. My dad, ever the optimist, would tease: “You’ll bring someone home next year, huh, Em?”
After the party, I drove home in the dark, headlights slicing through the November drizzle. My living room greeted me with silence, save for the hum of the refrigerator and the gentle purr of Jasper, my tabby, rubbing against my ankles as I kicked off my heels.
That night, I lay on my couch, scrolling through Instagram, a parade of engagement rings, wedding cakes, and ultrasound photos marching past my tired eyes. Somewhere between the third glass of wine and the tenth wedding hashtag, a text from my older sister, Lauren, buzzed in: “Saw your work party pics! Halina cracks me up. Still, you looked beautiful. We miss you—come for dinner Sunday?”
I stared at the screen, thumb hovering. Lauren, married at 24, lived in a restored farmhouse with her husband and three kids. Her life looked like a Pinterest board—flawless, curated, happy.
Sunday came, and I pulled up to Lauren’s house, greeted by the chaos of children’s laughter and the scent of pot roast. At dinner, her husband, Mike, asked, “So, anyone special in your life yet, Em?”
Lauren shot him a warning look, but the question hung between us. I tried to laugh it off. “Just Jasper. He’s very low maintenance.”
After dinner, Lauren cornered me in the kitchen. “I know it’s annoying, but we just worry about you. You work so hard, and you’re always alone. Don’t you want more?”
I rinsed my plate, hands shaking. “Of course I do, Laur. But I can’t make someone appear out of thin air.”
She hugged me, whispering, “You deserve happiness too.”
That night, I lay awake, the words circling my mind. Did I deserve happiness? Was I somehow failing at life because I hadn’t found someone to share it with?
I tried dating apps. Swiping became a nightly ritual—an endless carousel of faces, bios promising adventure, photos with dogs and fish, awkward first messages. I met a few men—Jake, who talked about his ex the entire time; Tyler, who texted me at midnight, drunk and lonely; and Mark, who seemed perfect but ghosted me after three dates.
Each time, the hope would flare, then flicker out, leaving me emptier than before.
Work became my refuge. I threw myself into projects, earning praise—and promotions—from Halina. But the more successful I became, the lonelier I felt. Success was supposed to be empowering, but somehow, it only made the silence at home louder.
One Friday, as I finished a late-night spreadsheet, Halina knocked on my office door.
“Emily, can I give you some advice?”
I nodded, bracing myself.
“I spent so many years waiting for someone to make me happy. Don’t do that to yourself. If love comes, great. But don’t put your life on hold.”
Her words stayed with me. That weekend, I skipped the dating apps and went hiking alone in Hocking Hills. The crisp air, the crunch of leaves, the vast sky overhead—it was the first time in months I felt at peace.
I started doing things for me: took a pottery class, joined a book club, volunteered at an animal shelter. Slowly, my world filled with new friends, laughter, and quiet joy. Sometimes, I still felt pangs of loneliness, especially at weddings or when friends announced pregnancies. But the ache wasn’t as sharp—it softened, became bearable, like an old scar.
At work, another engagement was announced. The toasts, the laughter, the questions—they all came, as always. But this time, I smiled, raised my glass, and, for the first time, meant it when I said, “Congratulations.”
Later, back home, Jasper curled up in my lap, I looked out at the city lights.
“Maybe happiness isn’t something someone else gives you,” I whispered. “Maybe it’s something you find for yourself.”
Do you ever feel like you’re running out of time to find your happy ending? Or is it possible that the story you’re living—right now—is enough?