That night, while the world slept, I sat with a fresh bundle of yarn and began again. My fingers moved on instinct alone — simpler stitches, a humbler design. Grief bled into determination.
Love tightened every knot. The following morning, our small wedding arrived beneath a cloudy sky. I was exhausted but unwavering.
Before the ceremony began, she approached me angrily. “You made a spectacle of me,” she snapped. “No,” I said gently.
“Your actions did that alone.”
Oliver stepped between us. “You are no longer welcome here. Not today.
Not if you cannot show kindness to the people I love.”
And for the first time in his life, he did not bend to her will. Goldie took my hand moments later, wearing the new dress I had finished only hours before. It was simpler, but it glowed with something no one could destroy.
“Am I still your magical Maid of Honor?” she whispered. “You always will be,” I told her. She walked beside me down the aisle, proud, radiant, holding my bouquet like it was crafted from starlight.
Our ceremony was small. It was peaceful. It was perfect.
In the months that followed, my hands never stopped crocheting. Women from all over the world found my story and asked for dresses of their own for their daughters, their nieces, their dreams. What had once been heartbreak became purpose.
And she is right.
Because no matter what anyone tries to unravel… love always finds a way to stitch itself back together again.
