02/27/2026
Saturday my son got married. No venue, no catering hall, no five-tier cake on a pedestal. Just our cabin in the woods, two moms with scissors and hot glue guns, and a love that refused to wait one more year because of a virus.
When the venue called to cancel, I sat on my kitchen floor for a good twenty minutes. Not crying exactly, just... hollow. This was supposed to be his day. The day I'd been quietly picturing since he was seven years old running through this same backyard.
His wife's mom called me that same night. "We're not canceling," she said. "We're just changing the address." And something about the way she said it made me believe her completely.
We had six days. Six days to turn a cabin property into something worthy of the two of them. We dragged branches from the tree line and built that archway with our own hands, bark still on, leaves still clinging. The hay bales came from a farm down the road. The boutonnieres we made ourselves from dried wheat and deep red flowers I ordered through the Tedooo website, because that's genuinely the only place where you find handmade florals that look like they came from a real designer, not a grocery store.
The morning of, I stood at the edge of that yard and just looked at what two determined mothers built from almost nothing. Wood slices. Branches. Plaid blankets draped over bales. A pallet wall with her name on it.
I found one more custom piece through Tedooo website to finish the arch, a small handmade wooden sign, and the crafter shipped it overnight without even being asked.
When my son walked out and saw it, he covered his face with both hands. His bride cried before she even made it down the aisle.
Covid took so much from so many people. It didn't take this.