If Tomorrow Never Comes: The Day Love and Money Collided

“If you can’t get the money by tomorrow, we’re done. I mean it, Sarah.”

The words echoed in my tiny apartment like the crack of a gunshot. Aaron stood in the doorway, arms folded, jaw tight—his eyes locked on mine, cold, determined. My hands trembled around the chipped mug of coffee I hadn’t touched. Three weeks from the biggest day of my life, and suddenly, this was it: love or money, tomorrow or never.

I wanted to scream. I wanted to throw the mug at the wall, to shatter the silence between us. Instead, I whispered, “Aaron, we can figure this out. We still have time.”

He shook his head. “No, Sarah. Your parents keep stalling, and I can’t keep carrying this on my own. If you want this wedding, we need the money now. I’m not going into debt for a party.”

A party. That’s what he called it. My wedding, the one I’d dreamed of since I was a girl, standing in my mom’s kitchen in upstate New York, pretending a dish towel was a veil. Suddenly, it was all just a party—a bill to be paid, or not paid.

The night before, my parents sat across from us at their kitchen table. My mom, hands folded, eyes flicking between me and Aaron. My dad, silent, stoic as always. They’d never loved Aaron—not really—but they tolerated him for my sake. When I told them about the wedding plans, about the cost, they winced. “Sarah, you know your father lost his job last year. Things aren’t easy. We can help with a little, but not everything.”

Aaron was furious on the drive home. “Your parents don’t respect us. They don’t respect me. You want this wedding? You find the money.”

Now, standing in my apartment, I felt the walls closing in. I texted my best friend, Emily: “Can we talk? Now?” Ten minutes later, she was at my door, breathless, hair still wet from the rain. I collapsed into her arms, sobbing.

“He’s giving you an ultimatum?” she said, incredulous. “Sarah, that’s not love. That’s control.”

“But what am I supposed to do?” I choked out. “I love him. I love him, Em. And I want this wedding.”

Emily cupped my face in her hands. “Do you want him more than you want yourself?”

That question haunted me as I lay awake that night, staring at the ceiling as headlights swept across my walls. I thought about Aaron—the way he made me laugh, the way he held my hand at the movies. But I also remembered the fights: the way he got angry when I worked late, when I spent money on little things, when I needed time alone.

The next morning, I sat in my car, parked outside my parents’ house, heart pounding. I rehearsed what I’d say, how I’d ask for help one last time. But when my mom opened the door, she just pulled me into her arms. “Sarah, you don’t have to do this.”

“Do what?”

She looked at me, eyes shining. “Marry someone who measures love in dollars.”

My dad shuffled in, holding a mug of black coffee. “We want you to be happy, sweetheart. Not broke. Not broken.”

I burst into tears. For the first time, I let myself grieve the dream: the white dress, the flowers, the perfect day. I let myself grieve the version of Aaron I’d hoped was real.

That afternoon, Aaron called. “Well? Did you get the money?”

I took a deep breath. “No, Aaron. I didn’t. And I don’t think I want to. Not like this.”

He was silent for a moment. Then: “So that’s it?”

“I guess it is.”

There was a long, cold silence before he hung up. I stared at my phone, waiting for tears that didn’t come. Instead, I felt…free. Lighter, somehow, like I’d been holding my breath for years. I walked outside, felt the wind on my face, and for the first time in weeks, I smiled.

Emily took me out for margaritas that night. We watched the city lights flicker on, one by one, and she squeezed my hand. “You did the right thing, Sarah.”

I thought about everything I’d lost—and everything I’d found. My voice. My dignity. My hope.

So here I am, three weeks later, not a bride, but not broken. Just me, Sarah Miller, figuring it out one messy day at a time. And I keep wondering: When did love start coming with a price tag? And what would you do if you had to choose—your heart, or your self-respect?