I nodded.
She smiled.
“In a heartbeat.”
Weeks later, Janet started looking at wedding dresses online.
She showed me photographs of elaborate gowns.
Some cost more than my first car.
I smiled and pretended to be interested.
Then one evening, I finally brought my dress into the bedroom.
I laid it carefully across the bed.
Janet stared at it.
For several seconds, she didn’t say anything.
Then she reached out and touched the fabric.
“You made this?”
I nodded.
“If you hate it, you don’t have to wear it.”
She looked at me.
Her eyes filled with tears.
“Tom.”
I waited.
“This is the most beautiful thing anyone has ever made for me.”
I didn’t know what to say.
So I simply hugged her.
The vow renewal was small.
Our children were there.
Close friends.
Family members.
People we’d known for decades.
During the ceremony, our daughter Sue read a poem.
“Mom and Dad taught us what love looks like,” she said.
“Even on the hard days.”
Janet looked at me.
Her lips formed two words.
You did this.
I smiled.
For a moment, everything felt perfect.
Then we went to the reception.
At first, everything was wonderful.
People ate.
They laughed.
We told old stories.
Then Carl, our neighbor, leaned toward me.
“A knitted wedding dress, Tom?”
