Love after heartbreak made me cautious—but it also made me hopeful. When my first marriage ended, my daughter Lucy was just five, full of glitter stickers and wild dreams. As we moved into our tiny apartment, she whispered, “It’s our cozy castle now.” That small voice kept me grounded when everything else felt uncertain.
Years later, Ryan came into our lives—steady, gentle, and patient. On their first meeting, he pushed Lucy on the swings and admired her “rainbow dragon” drawing as if she were a world-class artist. Later that night, Lucy grinned over melting ice cream and said, “He doesn’t talk to me like I’m a baby.” I knew, in that moment, we might have a second chance at family.
When Ryan proposed, Lucy nearly exploded with joy. She’d helped him pick the ring as part of a “secret mission,” and when I asked her to be my maid of honor, her eyes went wide. “Like a grown-up lady?” she asked. Exactly like that.
I’d been crocheting since I was fifteen—therapy for my anxious hands and restless mind. For Lucy’s dress, I searched three craft stores until I found the perfect pale lilac yarn. I designed every stitch myself: a high neckline, bell sleeves (because fairies, of course), and a soft scalloped hem. Every night, after Lucy fell asleep, I worked by lamplight, weaving my love into every loop.
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