I had sat in the second row, clutching the small lace handkerchief my own mother had given me on my wedding day. My chair felt slightly too small for the enormity of the moment. The string quartet played something elegant I couldn’t name, and the Texas light spilled through the tall windows in soft gold beams.

David stood at the altar in a perfectly tailored navy suit, his sandy hair a little too long at the back because he’d never quite mastered the art of planning haircuts around major life events. He looked both grown and achingly young, like the same boy who once walked into my classroom after school just to ride home with me.

When the doors opened and Jessica appeared on her father’s arm, the entire room leaned in. She really did look like a picture from a bridal magazine: blonde hair in soft waves, veil floating behind her, the kind of fitted white gown that costs more than my car. She smiled at David, and he smiled back with a softness I had waited decades to see on his face.

In that moment, I remember thinking, This is it, Margaret. You did it. You got him here. You got him to happy.