We haven’t gotten our high energy dog that’s been trained to protect Bella. Or flown to Italy so she can have authentic pizza, and to Greece to relive our ancient history obsession. I’m meant to be putting three kids in her, and we’re supposed to have an unconventional wedding, where she’d wear a white dress and start crying as she walks down the aisle. I can’t die. I won’t. But I can’t fight it. The last thing on my lips when the lights go out is her name. "Bella."
