For weeks, I crocheted my daughter, who is ten years old, the ideal Maid of Honour garment. When she put it on, she spun about like a princess from a fairy tale. However, I was devastated to learn what my future mother-in-law had done to it the day before my wedding. Karma took care of the rest, and I never forgiven her.
After a breakup, love feels different. It’s hopeful yet cautious. I believed that I would never be happy again when my first marriage ended five years ago. When we moved into our small flat, Lucy, who was just five at the time, put her little fingers around mine.
She whispered, “It’s okay, Mommy,” on that first night. That’s Lucy for you: “It’s our cosy castle now.” When the world seemed unstable, she was always my rock.
Lucy’s viewpoint was so crucial when Ryan entered our lives two years ago. It was difficult for her to trust me after everything we had been through together. As I watched them assess each other in the park during their first meeting, I held my breath and my palms started to perspire. Would he be liked by her? Would he see the same amazing little spirit that had been my pillar of support through everything that I saw in her?
I didn’t have to be concerned. Ryan listened to Lucy as if she were sharing the secrets of the universe with him, asking follow-up questions that made her smile with pride, and within minutes he was pushing her on the swings while she giggled about her most recent art project, something involving glitter and what she called “rainbow dragons.”
She later said, “He’s nice, Mom,” with chocolate ice cream smeared down the front of her favourite purple shirt and on her chin. “He doesn’t talk to me like I’m a baby.”
At that moment, I realised… genuinely believed that our family would be ideal.
Lucy was more thrilled than I was six months ago when Ryan proposed. She had been aware of the scheme and reportedly accompanied him on a “secret mission” to the jewellery store to help him choose the ring.
With a small kangaroo-like bounce on her toes, she said, “Do I get to wear a fancy dress?”
I said, “Better than that, sweetie,” as my heart grew larger with the kind of love that makes your chest hurt in the nicest way. “You’re going to be my maid of honour.”
She opened her eyes wider than I had ever seen them. “Really? Like a grown-up lady?”
“Exactly like that.” I gathered her in my arms. “My most important grown-up lady.”
Since my high school guidance counsellor advised me to find a productive way to channel my restless energy when I was fifteen, I have been crocheting. It began as a method to calm the racing thoughts that kept me awake at night and as a way to do something with my hands when anxiety started to creep in. With the rhythmic movements as calming as a lullaby, it evolved into my therapy and meditation throughout the years. When everything else felt broken, it became my means of making something lovely.
I ran the softest pale lilac yarn through my fingers at three different craft stores before deciding on the ideal tone for Lucy’s frock. She had always liked fairy tales, so I spent hours sketching designs that included a delicate scalloped hem that would dance when she walked down the aisle, a high neckline for elegance, and bell sleeves.
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“Not one,” I replied. “Some battles are worth fighting. Especially when you’re fighting for love.”
Retaliation isn’t always the best kind of retaliation. It’s just about transforming your suffering into something beautiful and refusing to allow the brutality of another person define your tale. Justice also sometimes takes care of itself.
