Later that evening, after we’d shared ice cream and walked home beneath a fading pink sky, Goldie leaned closer to me, her chin still smeared with melted chocolate. “I like him,” she whispered. “He talks to me like I’m a real person.”
That was all I needed.
Together, they picked out the ring, her tiny finger pointing seriously at the one she thought made me look most like a queen. When he finally knelt in our little garden and opened the box, Goldie gasped so loudly that the neighbor’s cat ran away in fright.
“Does this mean I’m getting a fancy dress?” she asked breathlessly as I laughed through my tears and said yes. “You’re getting more than that,” I told her, brushing her curls from her face. “You are going to be my Maid of Honor.”
Her eyes widened until I thought they might pop out of her head.
“Me? A real one? Like in the movies?”
“Yes.
My most important one.”
She threw her arms around me so tightly I nearly tipped over. That little moment, that laughter, that embrace, that feeling of “we are starting again, together” was something I wanted woven into every part of our wedding day. Especially into the dress she would wear.
I had been crocheting since I was fifteen. My high school counselor had once suggested I find a repetitive, soothing hobby to quiet my busy thoughts. I had picked up a crochet hook in the arts-and-crafts aisle on a bored afternoon, never imagining that it would become my sanctuary.
For Goldie’s Maid of Honor dress, I wanted something timeless and soft, the kind of dress that felt plucked from a fairytale but still simple enough for a little girl to run and twirl in. I searched for days to find the perfect yarn, finally choosing a pale shade of lavender that reminded me of early spring mornings. I sketched the design carefully: a graceful high neckline, flowing bell sleeves, tiny pearl buttons across the back, and a scalloped hem that would flutter when she walked.
Every idea came from the image of my child glowing with happiness. Each night, after I had tucked her into bed and kissed her forehead, I worked under the warm glow of a table lamp in the living room. The world fell quiet except for the gentle rhythm of hook against yarn.
Every loop I pulled through was filled with love for her, for our new life, for this fragile but beautiful future taking shape in my hands. Sometimes she would tiptoe out of her room, rubbing sleep from her eyes. “What are you making, Mama?” she’d whisper.
“A surprise made of magic,” I’d say, smiling. She’d nod seriously. “I can feel the magic.”
Four days before the wedding, the dress was complete.
I held my breath as I helped her carefully step into it. It slipped over her shoulders perfectly, as if it had grown there. The soft lavender highlighted the warmth in her cheeks and the golden flecks in her brown eyes.
When she twirled, the scalloped hem danced like ripples on water. “I look like a royal fairy!” she shrieked with delight, spinning in dizzy circles until she collapsed onto the carpet in laughter. To me, she looked like everything beautiful in the world had found a home inside one small human being.Continue reading…
