Over 20 years ago, he sat in the audience watching me perform at a Renaissance Festival. I never knew. Life took us both on winding paths—mine filled with heartbreak, fatherhood, and healing. I had given up on love. But fate wasn’t finished. Years later, we crossed paths again, and this time, I saw him. We fell in love not with who we were back then, but with who we had become. He’s my peace, my person, my second chance.

One night, we slow danced in the kitchen with no music playing—just the sound of us breathing, laughing, holding on. In that moment, nothing else mattered. No past, no pain. Just him, his arms around me, the warmth of being fully seen. I remember thinking, “So this is what safe feels like.” It wasn’t grand or planned—it was just love, real and quiet and ours.

With $20,000, I’d finally give the man I love the wedding he’s always dreamed of—intimate, meaningful, and surrounded by those who see us for who we are. We’d celebrate our love freely, without fear or compromise. And after, we’d take the honeymoon we’ve waited years for. Without this gift, it may take us years to save—and with the way politics are heading, I fear that chance might be stolen from us altogether. Love shouldn’t have a deadline.