What I mean is, I never thought this day would come again.
“…to celebrate the holy union of Margaret Elizabeth Rourke…”
Suddenly I feel sixteen again, as giggly as I did the first time I went to my high school prom. As beautiful as I did the first time I was crowned Miss Scurry County.
But about a million times happier than I did the first time…I was a bride.
Charlie wasn’t a bad man. Just a young one. We were both still kids, foolish and drunk in love. Drunk in lust, really. (In Charlie’s case, he was often drunk on something else, too.) When I got pregnant at twenty, he surprised me by doing what he thought was the noble thing. He proposed—even though I wasn’t sure it was what I wanted.
When the county judge at our simple courthouse ceremony asked us that big final question, I thought I was being coy and cute when I said with a smile, “I guess I do.” I understand now that was my doubt bubbling up to the surface.
I realized pretty quick that I should have listened to it.
Charlie left me and baby Alex less than a year later.
But that was a long time ago. A whole other lifetime. Today I really am marrying the man of my dreams. And I’ve never been more sure of anything.
He’s good and warm and decent and loyal, with a brain just as big as his heart.
He supports me in every single thing I do, large and small.
He can make me laugh till I can’t breathe.
But most of all, he stuck by my side and helped get me through the darkest period of my life. He led me to a light at the end of it that I never thought I’d see again.
And oh, yeah—he looks sexy as hell in his freshly pressed suit.
“…let them speak now or forever hold their peace.”
I gaze out at the people seated all around us, many of whom have trekked from far and wide to our beloved family farm, this small group of our very nearest and dearest, everyone smiling big despite the scorching August Texas sunshine.
As I scan all the faces, I become aware of just how much a true family affair this wedding is.
I’m standing under a wooden trellis built by my brother Hank, decorated with local wildflowers picked and arranged beautifully by his wife, Debbie.
My brother Stevie walked me down the aisle—and I could have sworn I heard the manly retired Marine sniffle.
My “something old” is my own late mother’s wedding veil, as light and silky as a spider’s web, which we’d kept tucked in the attic all these years.
My “something new” is a lacy garter, given to me by my sister-in-law, Kim, at the tame but hugely fun bachelorette party picnic she threw for me last weekend.
My “something borrowed” is a pair of earrings lent by my future mother-in-law, a warm and caring woman I’ve grown so close with.
And my “something blue”…well, that one wasn’t quite so easy. It’s tucked into my corset. Its metal edge is pressing gently but firmly into the skin above my heart.
How fitting, I think.
It’s a silvery-blue matchbox car that used to belong to Alex.
As a little boy, he played with it constantly. “Blueberry,” he called it. Some children have blankets or stuffed animals they carry around for comfort. My son had a tiny toy car named after his favorite fruit.
And now I’m the one carrying it around for comfort. A reminder that, even in the happiest of moments, a part of me will always be in pain.
But also a reminder that, even though Alex is no longer with us in person, he is with me on this day.
He is with me every day.
“Who gives this woman to be married to this man?”
Stevie steps forward. “I do.”
With a hug and a kiss on the cheek, and a whispered “Love ya, sis,” he delivers me to my future husband.
And then comes the big finish.
“Do you, Margaret Elizabeth, take—”
“Her friends just call her Molly, Pastor,” my fiancé says with a big smile. Laughs all around.
“Do you, Molly,” our officiant says with a warm grin.
I hear an excited rustling from the crowd behind me. The snap of photographs. This is everyone’s favorite part of a wedding. Mine, too.
“…take this man to be your lawful wedded husband?”
The pastor continues—but my body suddenly tenses with a flicker of panic.
That one word: lawful.
The law. The police. That caravan of Feds that sped into town