That morning, her shaking fingers had fastened every button.
She’d watched me walk down the aisle.
She’d cried during the vows, eaten overly sweet cake, and danced with me despite insisting she wasn’t tired.
“Yeah.”
She’d watched me walk down the aisle.
Mom slipped her arm through mine.
Outside, the cool air hit us as we walked toward her car.
The torn lace brushed softly behind me.
I didn’t reach back to fix it.
Neither did Mom.
We just kept walking.
I didn’t reach back to fix it.