I spent months crocheting my eight-year-old daughter Lily’s flower girl dress for my wedding. Every tiny stitch carried a little piece of my heart.
I never imagined I’d find it ripped apart on my wedding morning.
And I certainly never expected my future mother-in-law to admit she had destroyed it because Lily “wasn’t our blood.”
But what happened at the reception changed everything.
The night before our wedding, I sat beneath the living-room lamp, carefully finishing the last row of white crochet.
For months, I had worked on that dress whenever Lily went to bed.
I’d added tiny flowers to the skirt, delicate shell stitches along the sleeves, and a scalloped hem.
“Mommy, is it finally done?” Lily asked, bouncing onto the couch.
“Almost.”
I held it up.
Her eyes widened.
“It’s beautiful!”
“You’re going to be the prettiest flower girl there.”
She hugged me tightly.
“I’m going to scatter the petals really slowly.”
I laughed.
“Why slowly?”
