Billy offered me his arm at the chapel doors, and I took it.
Halfway down the aisle, he leaned toward me and whispered, “I’m so proud of you, Catherine.”
I thought: You already are, Dad. You just don’t know the half of it.
Grandma wasn’t physically there. But she lived in the dress, in each pearl button I had sewn back on one by one, and in the hidden pocket I had carefully stitched closed after folding her letter inside again.
That was where it belonged. It always had.
Some secrets aren’t lies.
They are simply love that had nowhere else to rest.
Grandma Rose wasn’t my grandmother by blood. She was something rarer—a woman who chose me every single day, without ever being asked.
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