Love after heartbreak is sharper, softer, cautious yet daring. Five years ago, after my first marriage collapsed, I thought happiness had vanished forever. My daughter, Lily, was just five, clutching my hand as we moved into a tiny one-bedroom apartment.
“It’s okay, Mommy,” she whispered. “It’s our cozy castle now.”
Lily became my anchor, my reminder that hope and light exist even in the darkest moments. So when James entered our lives two years ago, her trust mattered most. Their first meeting at the park was magic. James knelt, listening to her chatter about glitter, cardboard castles, and her stuffed rabbit. By the end of the afternoon, Lily whispered: “He’s nice, Mom. He doesn’t talk to me like I’m a baby.”
Six months ago, James proposed. Lily helped him pick the ring on a “spy mission” to the jewelry store. “Do I get to wear a fancy dress?” she asked. “Better than that,” I said. “You’re going to be my Maid of Honor.”
I had been crocheting since high school, and for Lily’s dress, I poured every stitch, every ounce of love, into a delicate lilac masterpiece—bell sleeves, scalloped hem, a fairy-tale dream.
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