My name’s Beatrice Walsh or Bea to everyone who ever shared a cup of tea at my kitchen table. I’m eighty-three, and I thought I’d made peace with life, but then, one September evening, a single cruel laugh at my grandson’s wedding reminded me that pride can still ache, even in old bones.
Liam was marrying Cassandra Whitmore, a girl coming from wealth. I wanted to believe she loved him for who he was, not for what he was becoming. I didn’t have much to give them, but I wanted my gift to mean something. So I reached for what my hands still knew; thread, fabric, and patience.
All summer I worked on a quilt. I stitched in pieces of things that meant a lot to me. There was a patch from Liam’s baby blanket, part of Henry’s old Sunday shirt, a scrap from my wedding dress. In the center, I embroidered Liam & Cassandra — Joined by Love. Maybe the stitches weren’t even, but I made that quilt with nothing but love.
The wedding was a beautiful one. They opened gifts under a spotlight, one by one. My plain brown parcel was last. Cassandra unfolded the quilt, smiled for half a second, then laughed. “Handmade?” she said into the microphone. “How… rustic.” The entire crows started laughing, and I felt like everyone was looking at me.
Struggling to hide my tears, I went outside, and then noticed that my grandson, Liam, followed after me. “Don’t leave,” he said. And before I could stop him, he went back inside and told the guests, “This wedding is over.”
The laughter died and Cassandra froze. “You mocked the only person who’s ever loved me without asking for anything,” he said. “If you can’t respect her, you don’t love me.”
I felt guilty long after that, but Liam convinced me that what happened was just the last straw. Cassandra never treated him the way he deserved.
By morning, the video of Liam calling off the wedding was everywhere. People called it brave, foolish, romantic.
Months later, Liam met Lila at a community garden. She was different than Cassandra, a woman just as simple as Liam was. When she first came to my home, she noticed the quilt and said, “This is beautiful. It feels alive.” They married under the oak tree Henry planted when we first moved here. It was a simple ceremony. No fancy things, no microphone. Just like Liam always imagined his wedding would look like.
I unstitched the embodied message on the quilt and placed Liam’s daughter’s name on it. Now, that same quilt lies across the crib of the baby girl.
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