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When he had proposed, Lily waited until he left the room before climbing onto the couch beside me.
She leaned into my shoulder and whispered.
“Mommy,” she said, twisting her fingers together. “Would it be okay if I knitted your wedding dress?”
“My what?! You want to…”
“The dress, Mom,” Lily said, almost rolling her eyes.
“I know it’s a lot. And it’s going to take a while… but I want it to be from me.
I want you to wear something I made. Please?”
I cried. I didn’t even try to stop myself.
That night, I gave her the pair of knitting needles I had been holding onto since the year her father, my first husband, had died.
Brandon never got to give them to her himself.
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