We got married that October in a small chapel.
I wore the dress, carefully altered by my own hands.
Daniel offered me his arm, and I took it.
Halfway down the aisle, he leaned in and whispered, “I’m so proud of you, Emily.”
I thought, You already are, Dad. You just don’t know it.
Grandma wasn’t there in person. But she was in every stitch of that dress, in every pearl I sewed back, and in the hidden pocket where I placed her letter again.
It belonged there.
Some secrets aren’t lies.
Sometimes, they’re just love with nowhere else to go.
Grandma Helen wasn’t my grandmother by blood. She was something rarer—a woman who chose me, every single day.
