On the other side of the room, Lila and Ellie are… not being flower girls so much as being tiny agents of chaos in tulle.
Ellie is spinning in circles with a basket on her arm, tossing petals onto the carpet like she’s blessing the room with glitter.
Lila is watching her with the serious concentration of a kid who has been assigned a job she intends to do correctly.
“Ellie,” Lila says firmly. “Those are for the aisle.”
Ellie stops spinning long enough to blink at her. “But this is a floor.”
“Yes,” Lila says, as if Ellie is missing the entire point on purpose. “But notthefloor.”
Ellie considers that, then lowers her voice dramatically. “What if we do extra petals so it’s more romantic?”
Lila’s gaze flicks to me, like she’s silently asking if she’s allowed to confiscate Ellie’s basket.
I hold in a laugh.
This is my life now. Two little girls in matching dresses arguing about romance logistics.
It’s warm. It’s imperfect. It’s real.
It’s everything I didn’t know I was allowed to have.
A knock taps softly at the door.
Rose glances up. “Come in!”
The door opens, and Maggie McCoy steps inside like she belongs here, because she does. She’s in a blue dress with a pearl necklace and that steady look she gets when she’s holding a whole family up with her spine.
Behind her, my mom follows, holding a garment bag as if it contains something fragile and holy.
My throat tightens.
I can’t move.
Because there was a time when I couldn’t picture my mother at my wedding. Not because she didn’t love me, but because love was never the question. The question was always whether my father would allow her to exist in the same room without trying to control the air.
Today, he isn’t here.
Today, he doesn’t get to take anything.
My mom’s eyes meet mine, and her mouth trembles.
“Oh, honey,” she whispers.
Charlotte makes a strangled sound. “Nope. Nope. Nope. Not crying. Not starting that.”
Too late.
My mom crosses the room in two steps and cups my face in her hands the way she used to when I was little. Her palms are warm.
She presses her forehead to mine for a beat, then pulls back and wipes under her eyes with the side of her thumb like she’s annoyed tears exist.
“You look so beautiful,” she says. “And not… not ‘perfect’ beautiful. You look… like you.”
The words hit deeper than any compliment I’ve ever gotten in my life.
I swallow hard. “That’s the goal.”
