When I first met Lily, she was six years old. She was a quiet, delicate child with wide brown eyes that studied everyone carefully before deciding whether or not to trust them. Her smile was rare, fleeting, as if she was afraid of giving away too much of herself.
Losing her mother at just three years old had left her clinging tightly to her father, Daniel, reluctant to let anyone else in. I never blamed her for that. Scars left by such a loss are invisible, but they run deep.
It took patience, time, and more than a few missteps, but little by little, I found my way into her world. I read her bedtime stories where princesses were their own heroes. I let her stir pancake batter, even when the kitchen ended up covered in flour.
We laughed ourselves breathless over our many cookie failures. One evening, she let me brush her long dark hair. At first, she sat rigid, uncertain, but gradually she relaxed, leaning into me.
In the faintest whisper, she said, “I hope you stay forever.” Tears stung my eyes as I replied, “I hope so too.”
When Daniel proposed two years later, Lily was the very first to know. Her squeal of joy was so loud that even the dog barked in alarm. She threw her arms around me and shouted, “I have to be the flower girl!” Within minutes, she was sketching designs for her dress in her pink notebook.
From that moment, she became part of everything—the fittings, the cake tastings, the planning sessions. She held my hand like she already belonged there. And she did.
I wasn’t just marrying Daniel; I was officially becoming Lily’s family. The morning of the wedding was glowing with sunshine. In the bridal suite, Lily twirled in her ivory dress with a pink sash she had chosen herself.
She looked like she had stepped out of one of her fairy tale books. “Are you nervous?” she asked, watching my reflection as my maid of honor touched up my lipstick. “A little,” I admitted.
She grinned, showing the gap where her front tooth had fallen out. “I’m not. I practiced my walk a thousand times.
Watch!” She demonstrated her careful little steps, making me laugh through my nerves. When the ceremony began, I stood at the edge of the aisle, bouquet in hand. The music swelled, guests hushed, and I waited for Lily to make her entrance.
She had dreamed of this moment. But instead, my three-year-old niece, Sophie, stumbled out. Her flower crown slid over her eye as she half-heartedly dropped petals.
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