Margaret arrived early, dressed simply, no pearls. She held a corsage in her hands and looked nervous, like she was entering a room where she couldn’t control the outcome.
Lily stepped into the living room.
Margaret’s eyes filled immediately.
“Oh,” Margaret whispered, voice breaking. “Lily.”
Lily grinned. “I made it.”
Margaret nodded, tears slipping down her cheeks. “You did,” she whispered. “And you didn’t need anyone’s label to do it.”
Lily tilted her head. “Grandma, I have a label.”
Margaret blinked. “You do?”
Lily smiled, mischievous. “It’s inside,” she said. “And it’s not for other people.”
Margaret stared at her, then laughed softly through tears. “That,” she said, “is the best kind.”
David took photos. Jack pretended not to care but hovered nearby like a quiet guard.
As Lily walked out the door toward the car, she paused and looked back at us—me, David, Margaret, my parents, Jack—all standing in our living room full of ordinary furniture and extraordinary history.
“I have room,” Lily said simply.
My throat tightened. “You always will,” I said.