When Maverick proposed, she was the first person I called.
“Amy, stop! This is amazing! Your wedding is going to be unreal!” she squealed.

From then on, she took wedding planning as seriously as if it were her own. Venue tours, cake sampling, flower arrangements—she was there for all of it. She even wrote the invitations because her handwriting was elegant and mine looked like my kindergarten students’.

“You’re made for happiness,” she’d tell me, flipping through bridal magazines. “Maverick is lucky to have you.”

I trusted her completely. I trusted him just as deeply.

Those last weeks leading up to the big day passed in a dizzying rush—final fittings, tiny decisions, joyful chaos. My parents were ecstatic. Mom cried every time she caught sight of my gown. Dad kept reciting his speech to his reflection as if he were auditioning. Even my younger brother Danny chimed in, offering to help however he could.