It took 20 years to get married to my husband, John. He wasn’t the problem. I was.

I love John. He’s great. We met shortly after graduate school. We’ve lived together in three states, bought a house, started a business, rescued four pets, and generally get along like a couple of junior high BFFs.

Marriage became an annual discussion, but never in a romantic, propose-to-each-other way. It made sense for tax purposes, so each year we’d bring it up with our accountant, Meltzer. He’d sigh. “Just get married already. What’s wrong with you two?”

I’d usually blame the budget. I read somewhere that an average wedding costs $32,641. I’m not sure who calculated that specific number, but if I had $32,641 hanging around, I’d put it toward paying off my house. Plus, we need stuff: new computer equipment; a dishwasher; some fillings and a crown. Dental hygiene is important…and expensive. John was finally fed up. “We’re not getting any younger. I don’t want wrinkled-old-man wedding photos.”

He had a point. He was 46 — it seemed silly to call him my boyfriend. I didn’t mind getting married; we practically were. I just didn’t want a wedding.

The first and only time I envisioned my wedding was when I was four. I walked down the aisle — our hallway — in my pink ballet tutu. My groom was a Donny Osmond album I placed on a chair. Later, as an adult, I came up with several excuses to avoid it, and not just because I hoped Donny would eventually become available:

Family: Love them, but don’t trust them. I’ve had enough Thanksgivings with these folks to know that my special day could end in ruination.

Time: I’m busy and don’t have time to plan a wedding. Yes, there’s City Hall or Vegas, but those options felt sad, not special.

Chicken Dance: Does anyone even do this anymore? I don’t want to risk it.

But the real reason is that my mother died of breast cancer when I was 10. Because of that, life events that should be experienced with your mother — usually milestones that celebrate womanhood — are not celebratory for me. Most “firsts” were absolute disasters.

When I first got my period, a book called Girls and Sex mysteriously appeared on my bookcase. A few days later, my dad pointed to the book and said, “Let me know if you want to discuss anything” before hurrying away. I stayed away from that book like it had a sexually transmitted disease.

On my 16th birthday, I had my first date: Two big life moments in one. I had no idea how to flirt, so at dinner I stole a paper flower off the wall at Chili’s and then made a joke about it.

My first breakup happened about 14 hours after my first date. I guess stealing Chili’s wall art wasn’t funny. When my grandmother heard the news, she was more upset than I was, lamenting, “Why, why, why?” Not a confidence booster.

Every big moment I need a mother for was completely botched, and I didn’t want the wedding equivalent of Girls and Sex.

Maybe I deserved wedding angst. I have never been that jazzed about other couples’ weddings. Of course, I wished my friends happiness, but I always felt disconnected to the whole process. Weddings seemed foreign to me.

My knowledge of wedding etiquette was nonexistent. My best friend from high school got married when we were still in college. I was her bridesmaid, and I’m not even sure if I got her a wedding gift. (And if I didn’t, I’m apologizing now for being a total rube.) Post-college, when so many couples rushed down the aisle, I worked out of the country, so I wasn’t around to learn all the nuptial nuances. By the time I met John, most of our friends were already married. We didn’t attend many weddings together and didn’t feel the pull to follow suit. My sister did ask me to be her maid of honor, but we both knew it was in name only; I was clueless. One of her very organized bridesmaids did the heavy planning. I was happy to stay in the background, far away from the touchy-feely stuff.

If weddings were a sport, I’d be more of an unenthusiastic spectator, as opposed to a joyous participant. Mostly, I was bored, except when something unexpected happened, like the buttons popping off my friend’s wedding dress when she was doing the Limbo. Sometimes, at receptions, while other guests were getting uproariously drunk and partying like it’s 1999, I would sit and watch them, annoyed that they were having so much fun and depressed that I wasn’t. During rituals like the cutting of the cake and throwing of the bouquet, I’d hide in the bathroom to avoid the hoo-hah. At a shower, when friends were swapping mother-of-the-bride horror stories, I had nothing to contribute. The only thought in my mind was: It’s not fair. At least you have a mother. I would give anything to be able to argue with mine.

While my marriage would be between me and John, I wanted my wedding to be between me and my mother, and I’m missing that essential element. Nobody else in my family seemed to mind if I had a wedding or not, and that’s understandable — it wasn’t anyone else’s job. I’m not even sure a wedding can happen without a mom. Who else would willingly do the meaningless little stuff that makes a wedding a wedding — boss you about the invitations, keep your uncle from getting drunk, or force you to invite her friends? She never got to meet John. Isn’t that a prerequisite? Would we have fought because I wanted a non-froufy dress? I will never know.