The following year was pretty uneventful.

Mr. Giant returned to coaching, which meant most days it was just me and the baby, minding our business while his career lived somewhere else. We stayed in touch, of course. Texts. Calls. FaceTime where the baby stared at the phone like it owed him money. By the time summer rolled around, we were well past the Christmas Party Fiasco and emotionally filed it under we survived that somehow.

Naturally, the conversations turned to what’s next.
He explored everything. Continue coaching? Broadcasting? Sports analyst gigs? Investments? I listened, nodded, and internally thought, Cool… but bills don’t care about potential.

I had my eye on real estate. Something solid. Something boring in a sexy way (hey HGTV!). Semi-passive income. A little stability sprinkled on top of the chaos. As we talked through it, I noticed his energy shift. Subtle. Tight. Like when you say “we need to talk” and someone suddenly remembers an urgent appointment. Discomfort.

So I offered a solution.
I’d buy the first property myself. We weren’t married. If it went left, it would be my left. I was excited, touring properties, running numbers, imagining a future where my money worked harder than I did.

And then I found the one.

Cue panic.

Suddenly, he had concerns. Opinions. Warnings. Reasons. And then he dropped the line that sealed the deal:

“We should wait until we get married and do this together.”

Ahhh.
Sweet, sweet music to my 28 year old ears.

Marriage…the magical land where everything changes overnight. Where men become calmer, families become kinder, and finances suddenly operate with mutual respect and foresight. So naturally, I pulled the offer. A decision I now regret with my whole chest.

Life continued on.
And before I knew it, Christmas had circled back like an uninvited guest with strong opinions.

That year, we hosted. His family came to town for the first time since our son was born. Mr. Giant was away when they arrived, so I did what I always did and jumped in. Cooked a full meal. Picked them up from the airport. My mom was already warming everything up before we arrived back at home because LA traffic is a personal attack.

As we dragged suitcases inside, I announced that dinner was ready.

“Ohhhh… you made dinner?” his mom asked.

“Yes,” I said, proudly. Naively. Optimistically.

“What did you make?”

I listed it off—chicken, potatoes, broccoli, rolls, salad.

After each item she responded with mmmhmmm.
Not a “sounds good” mmmhmmm.
A sure you did…mmmhmmm.

Why would I lie about chicken?

I ignored it. Because growth!

That is until I watched her motion to my mom and whisper, “Thanks for cooking for us.”

My mom looked up at me. I looked at her. Somewhere between us floated a very clear WTF.

“I didn’t do anything but heat it up,” my mom said, with confidence and receipts. “My daughter made all of this.”

His mom laughed.
“Hmmm. Okay.”

And just like that, the holiday vibes packed their bags.

Still, I pushed through.
Because it was Christmas. Because I’d bought thoughtful gifts. Because I believed in effort. Mr. Giant made his way back to LA and Christmas Day arrived with the best kind of early morning chaos, wrapping paper everywhere, breakfast, and laughter. My mom, sister, and her boyfriend joined us for dinner. The kids played. The house felt full.

And yet…
Something was missing.

I kept waiting.
This is it, I thought.
Surely today.

Maybe Valentine’s Day, I told myself later.

That night, when hope had officially clocked out and we settled into our room for the night, he said, “I have one more gift for you.”

Hope clocked back in.

He handed me a poorly wrapped T-shirt box…there goes hope clocking right back out!

This absolutely cannot be how my engagement story goes, I thought.

Inside I found an aggressive amount of tissue paper. Then my fingers hit something small. Black. Box-shaped. I looked up.

He was kneeling.

I don’t remember what he said. Not a single word. All I remember was the rush…the excitement…the certainty that my dreams were finally coming true. That this was IT. The fairy tale. The happy ending.

I ran outside to tell his mom and sister, expecting excitement. Warmth. A hug, maybe…

Instead I got:

“You’re so lame. Why’d you do it like that instead of in front of everyone?”

Not directed at me.
Directed at him.

Yeah, the red flags were certainly there. Neon. Flashing. Practically dancing.
Still, I marched forward convinced that this ring would fix everything. Sounded good in theory.

So, we planned fast.

Six months later, we’d be headed to the Caribbean for our wedding.