I felt his chest trembling against mine.

My son, the same child I used to wrap in blankets when he got sick in winter, was crying like a man who suddenly understands how much love sustained him without him being able to fully measure it.

“Forgive me, Mom,” he whispered next to my ear. “Forgive me for not noticing you were worried.”

I stroked his hair like when he was little.

—You have nothing to forgive me for, son. Today is your day.

But Lara shook her head and took my hand again.

“No,” she said, her voice still breaking with emotion. “Today is hers too.”

He turned to the priest.

—Father, before we continue… may I ask one more thing?

The priest, whose eyes were as bright as half the room, smiled and nodded.

Lara then bent down slightly, lifted the hem of her white dress, and carefully unfastened a small brooch hidden in the inner seam. It was a flower made from the same green fabric I was wearing.

She held it between her fingers.

Then he looked at my son.

—Marco, when you showed me the picture of your mother in this dress, I understood something. Weddings shouldn’t begin with luxury. They should begin with gratitude.

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