The chatter quieted down as the music began.
I sat in the front pew beside Aunt Jenny, who clutched my hand like it was her lifeline.
Her grip was tight, almost too tight, but I didn’t pull away. I needed it.
Then the doors opened again—and there he was. Michael.
Mom saw him before anyone else.
Her face lit up, and the smile that bloomed across her lips was so full of joy, it nearly brought tears to my eyes.
No preacher could have spoken more clearly than that look. It was love. Simple and whole.
When they stood together at the altar, the light from the stained glass cast little pools of color over them—reds, blues, and golds like a patchwork quilt.
When it was time for the vows, Mom said his name like it was something holy, something she’d been saving in her heart for years.
And then, during his speech, Michael looked right at me and said, “To Alice, who pushes me to be better.”
My breath caught.
I didn’t know what to do with those words, so I held them close, like something warm in cold hands.
The reception was simple, held in the community hall.
Strings of paper lanterns glowed above us, swinging gently in the breeze from ceiling fans.
The air smelled of roast chicken, warm rolls, and buttered corn.
Mom found me during a slow song and leaned in close.
“You really okay with this?” she asked softly.
I nodded. “You deserve your own happy.”
She kissed my forehead, gentle and proud. “So do you.”
Michael joined us then, placing a quiet hand on my shoulder.
Something inside me shifted—not quite love, not yet, but something close. Something possible.
That night, my mother got married. And for the first time in a long while, I didn’t feel like I was losing her.
I felt like I was finally meeting her—for real.
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