Poppy and James’s wedding was throat-closingly romantic: at sunset, on the banks of a river, then, later, twinkling lights in a barn filled with hay bales and naked wooden tables covered with artisinal bread and cheese, and jugs of cheap wine, and flowers plucked from the veld.

We were newly grown up and at that point in our young lives where we were contemplating big things — buying houses and washing machines and finding well-paying jobs and changing cars to fit baby seats.

And marriage.

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