The morning was a disaster. Rain sideways, the wrong lilies, my hem coming undone.
I was ready to cancel everything and hide in the coat closet.
Then Great-Aunt Margie stood up. She was eighty-four and had never given a toast in her life. She clutched the tomato-shaped pincushion she'd carried in her purse for sixty years because it made her feel steady.
She pulled out a letter I'd written to my pen pal in Sweden when I was nine. I'd forgotten about Ingrid completely, but Margie had saved that letter for thirty-two years.
She read the last line aloud: I want to marry someone who makes ordinary days feel like something.
The room went quiet. She looked at me and said, 'You found him. Now stop crying about the rain.'
I did. The rain was still coming down, and for the first time all day, I didn't care.