“Dad, are you knitting?”
“It’s a blanket,” I said.
“Weird flex,” he said, and left it at that.
**
Anthony even caught me one afternoon.
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Truth was, every stitch felt like a lifeline. Janet had spent that year fighting through an illness I couldn’t fix. Some nights I’d find her curled on the couch, headscarf slipping, cheeks pale.
She’d look up and pat the cushion next to her.
“Come sit. You’re always on your feet, Tom.”
I’d sit with her, struggling to keep my heart from pounding.
“Are you doing alright, my love?” I’d asked, trying to sound casual.
She’d nod. “Tired. But lucky.”
“You’re always on your feet, Tom.”
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That soft ivory yarn became a record of all my hopes. I’d hold up a sleeve to the light, running my thumb over the little M, S, and A I’d hidden in the hem. Each detail was for her: lace from our old curtains, and wildflowers like her bouquet.
**
Two months before our anniversary, after one quiet dinner, I finally asked, “Will you marry me again?”
She blinked, then laughed. “Tom, after all we’ve done together? In a heartbeat.”
**
A few weeks later, she started looking online for something to wear. I watched her scroll through fancy websites, occasionally glancing at me with a question in her eyes.
That’s when I showed her the dress.
“Will you marry me again?”
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I didn’t say anything at first. I just laid it across the bed, careful not to wrinkle it.
Janet ran her fingers over the lace pattern, her thumb pausing on the hem where our children’s initials hid.
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