The Wedding
NICHOLAS SPARKS

Prologue
Is it possible, I wonder, for a man to truly change? Or do character and habit form the immovable
boundaries of our lives?
It is mid-October 2003, and I ponder these questions as I watch a moth flail wildly against the
porch light. I'm alone outside. Jane, my wife, is sleeping upstairs and she didn't stir when I
slipped out of bed. It is late; midnight has come and gone, and there's a crispness in the air that
holds the promise of an early winter. I'm wearing a heavy cotton robe, and though I imagined it
would be thick enough to keep the chill at bay, I notice that my hands are trembling before I bury
them in my pockets.
Above me, the stars are specks of silver paint on a charcoal canvas. I see Orion and the Pleiades,
Ursa Major and Corona Borealis, and think I should be inspired by the realization that I'm not
only looking at the stars, but staring into the past as well. Constellations shine with light that was
emitted aeons ago, and I wait for something to come to me, words that a poet might use to
illuminate life's mysteries. But there is nothing.
This doesn't surprise me. I've never considered myself a sentimental man, and if you asked my
wife, I'm sure she would agree. I do not lose myself in films or plays, I've never been a dreamer,
and if I aspire to any form of mastery at all, it is one defined by rules of the Internal Revenue
Service and codified by law. For the most part, my days and years as an estate lawyer have been
spent in the company of those preparing for their own deaths, and I suppose that some might say
that my life is less meaningful because of this. But even if they're right, what can I do? I make no
excuses for myself, nor have I ever, and by the end of my story, I hope you'll view this quirk of
my character with a forgiving eye. Please don't misunderstand. I may not be sentimental, but I'm
not completely without emotion, and there are moments when I'm struck by a deep sense of
wonder. It is usually simple things that I find strangely moving: standing among the giant
sequoias in the Sierra Nevadas, for instance, or watching ocean waves as they crash together off
Cape Hatteras, sending salty plumes into the sky. Last week, I felt my throat tighten when I
watched a young boy reach for his father's hand as they strolled down the sidewalk. There are
other things, too: I can sometimes lose track of time when staring at a sky filled with windwhipped
clouds, and when I hear thunder rumbling, I always draw near the window to watch for
lightning. When the next brilliant flash illuminates the sky, I often find myself filled with
longing, though I'm at a loss to tell you what it is that I feel my life is missing.

My name is Wilson Lewis, and this is the story of a wedding. It is also the story of my marriage,
but despite the thirty years that Jane and I have spent together, I suppose I should begin by
admitting that others know far more about marriage than I....

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