Skin of the Soul
Copyright© 2025 by Danielle Stories
Chapter 3: The Unadorned Truth
The morning of my wedding, I woke up at dawn, alone in my old room at my father’s house. The habit was too ingrained to break. I slipped out of bed and walked onto the porch, the wooden planks cool and familiar under my feet. The world was bathed in that same hushed, pre-light glow I loved. It felt like a lifetime ago that I’d sat here, sipping iced tea and declaring my quiet war to an unseen reader.
Now, the war was over. The peace was profound.
Today, I would wear a dress.
It was hanging on the back of the door, a simple, fluid column of raw silk the color of sea foam. Shanice, my soon-to-be maid of honor, had helped me pick it out. “It feels like you,” she’d said. “It doesn’t wear you.” She was right. It was an adornment, not a disguise.
But first, I had a final, unadorned walk to take.
I met Abdullahi on the beach at First Landing, at our spot—the clearing where the cypress trees gave way to the creek. He was waiting for me, handsome and steady in the dappled light. This was our tradition, our private ceremony before the public one. To meet as our most essential selves, with no fabric, no rings, no words between us and the world.
He took my hands, his palms warm against mine. We didn’t speak. We just stood there, breathing together, the silence a language we had both become fluent in. His eyes held all the love, all the shared battles, all the quiet mornings. In his gaze, I was not a symbol or a story. I was just Kiera. His Kiera.
He leaned in and kissed me, a soft promise of a kiss. Then he smiled, a little mischievously. “See you at the altar, soon-to-be Mrs. Wood.”
I watched him walk away, my heart so full I thought it might burst. This was the man who had seen my strength when I felt weakest, who had fought for the truth of my story, and who loved the woman I was, unconditionally.
The ceremony was held at sunset on the shore at Croatan, just as the sky began to blaze with oranges and purples. Our friends and family formed a semi-circle in the sand. Mattie Gay wore a magnificent purple hat. Mario Hughes stood stiff but smiling in a new suit. My father, officiating, beamed with a pride that outshone the setting sun.
As I walked towards them, towards Abdullahi, the silk of my dress whispering against my skin, I felt a flutter of nerves. But it wasn’t about the people watching. It was the significance of the step I was about to take, and it was the secret I carried.
I found out a week ago. The nausea I’d blamed on wedding stress, the profound tiredness. The test, with its two bold pink lines, held in a hand that trembled not with fear, but with a joy so fierce it stole my breath. I was going to be a mother.
I hadn’t told anyone. Not Shanice, not my father. Not even Abdullahi. This news was too vast, too sacred to share just yet. I wanted to hold it between just the two of us, and God, for a little while longer.
I reached Abdullahi’s side. He took my hands, his eyes shining.
“You are breathtaking,” he whispered.
My father began to speak, his voice strong and clear over the sound of the waves. He talked about love as the ultimate act of courage, about two individuals choosing to build a life of shared truth.