I have never had to tell so many strangers that you are both dead. Weddings are such family occasions, it was just expected that you would be there. The florist asked about your buttonhole, Dad, the lady in the wedding dress shop wanted to know when you would be coming to see my dress, Mum. The celebrant, the venue, the photographers, the bridal car, the stationers, they all wanted to know about you both, then offered condolences when I explained. All normal things for other brides I suppose, but such small, sad moments for me.
You never met my husband, Mum, but I hope you would like him. Like you, he loves books. We went through your library together hunting for treasures and he sat with me as I found your random bookmarks and inscriptions and missed you deeply. Your best friend has been kind to us; she cooks us lunch sometimes and says he is gentle and a good man. She baked a tier of our wedding cake, your sister baked another, and I covered it all in your favourite lavender flowers.
Dad, one night when you were ill, I sat next to you on your bed and admitted how scared I was. Scared that you would leave, that I would be alone, that you wouldn’t be at my wedding, something so hypothetical at that time. You smiled and held my hand and told me you’d be there. How I wish with all my heart that you had been right. Before you died, you told me that you had always liked the man I went on to marry and I don’t think you knew how much comfort those words have brought. He didn’t let me walk down the aisle alone, Dad; he held my hand the whole way.
I have missed you both with a new, sharp edge this past year. I missed having someone to call and talk about my wedding plans with, to have someone who called just to see how I was doing; someone to offer help and guidance. I have missed being part of a family. I have been angry and anxious and upset without realising why. A bride-to-be is supposed to be happy, so I nodded and smiled when people asked how I was instead of saying how lost and alone I felt. People kept telling me what a wonderful time an engagement is, but I felt like a fraud as I agreed. Throughout it all, my husband-to-be was the eye of the storm, the safe place where it was OK to be sad and silent and I love him even more than I thought possible for understanding.
You have both been gone for many years, but I was blindsided by how much I missed being your daughter on my wedding day. We wanted it to be a celebration of love rather than loss and we tried to weave you both into the day in small ways. I wore your solitaire, Mum, and we filmed the day on your old camera, Dad, the one you used to film your own wedding. But it took all my strength not to burst into tears when I put on my wedding dress in the home you built together, knowing that you weren’t there to see me.
Getting into the wedding car with my bridesmaids reminded me of all the compromises that had to be made. I should have been sitting next to you, Dad. I am in my 30s, but in that moment I was a child who just wanted my daddy beside her. As we drove down the drive and past the rose bushes you had planted, I missed you both so much it hurt.
The day was beautiful, though. Our ceremony was full of joy and hope and love. The sun shone and we laughed and danced with all of our favourite people. We fell asleep giddy with excitement and giggling at the new names of “husband” and “wife” that we had acquired. I hope you would be proud of me, of what I’ve done in the years since we last saw each other. It has been so hard and lonely and sad, but I wanted you to know that I’m not alone any more. He became my family on our wedding day and we are building a future together.
With all my heart, your daughter
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