“Yes,” I said firmly. “Absolutely.”
When the church doors opened, the room fell silent before I even stepped inside.
I wore a simple ivory dress from the planner’s emergency rack.
In my arms, I carried the ruined quilt skirt.
Loose patchwork pieces hung where they had been torn, and the stains were clearly visible beneath the lights. Whispers spread through the guests as I walked down the aisle.
At the altar, Colin’s smile slowly faded into confusion.
“What happened?” he whispered when I reached him.
“You’ll understand in a minute.”
I placed the torn skirt across a small table beside us and nodded toward the sound booth.
The music faded.
A soft piano track began playing.
The large screen behind the altar flickered to life.
The first image showed my mom standing in our kitchen, holding up a half-finished quilt and laughing.
A murmur moved through the church.
Then my recorded voice filled the room.
“When I was growing up, it was just my mom and me.”
Photos appeared one after another.
“There were winters when we couldn’t afford to keep the heat on very often. So my mom made us a quilt from old clothes. It kept us warm. It made us feel safe.”
The final photo appeared: me during my fitting, wearing the finished skirt and crying with my hand over my mouth.
“When I got engaged, I turned that quilt into my wedding skirt. It wasn’t fancy, but it meant everything to me.”
The screen went dark.
I stepped forward and picked up the microphone.
