The day was so sad for me. There was no joy.

Leo’s parents were delighted that he had found a Jewish girl to marry, having worried that his wild ways and mischievous exploration of a new country, littered with the unknown, would lead him down an unsavoury path.

I wish I had shared their excitement. Instead, I stood under the chuppah imbued with regret and fear. Leo had once told me that he would never be nice to me; that he would never let me know how much he loved me. He was scared of letting people get close to him.

He had lost most of his family during the Holocaust, and had had to leave the home that he knew without warning, without time to adjust. He had lost trust in the world around him, and couldn’t quite believe that his life wouldn’t shatter again, that he wouldn’t lose more. I understood his fears, and his hesitancy in letting himself rely on someone, especially someone he could not control. How could I not?

I married him out of compassion, and out of fear of being alone. I wish that I had been wiser.