Hannah’s dress is absolutely ravishing—fitted lace with a subtle shimmer that catches the afternoon light, making her look as if she just stepped straight out of a bridal magazine. And Michael… God, my boy has never looked more handsome. He’s got his father’s curly hair and strong jawline, and my crystal blue eyes, though his smile is all his own—big and lopsided. Not to toot my own horn, but I think I did a marvelous job selecting the tuxedo.

I watch, heart swelling, as he slips that massive diamond onto her finger. The thing’s gotta be worth ten grand, easy. It sparkles like a disco ball, but somehow it doesn’t outshine her. I admit… she deserves every last carat. I couldn’t ask for a better daughter-in-law.

They’re grinning at each other like nobody else exists when the priest clears his throat and says, “You may kiss the bride.”

Michael leans down, brushing a strand of cinnamon-colored hair from her cheek before pressing a kiss to her lips. It’s the kind of moment you dream about as a mother—your son finding someone who looks at him like he hung the damn moon.

But just as I try to soak it all in, the entire scene goes fuzzy. The crisp blue sky blurs. The altar shifts out of focus. My face feels damp.

I blink rapidly, then reach up. Wet. My cheeks are actually wet. The fuck?

A firm touch lands on my shoulder. I whip my head around. I can barely see my husband squinting at me, his brow furrowed in disbelief. He leans closer, voice low and stunned.

“Honey, are you… crying?”

I wipe at my eyes, annoyed that everything still looks smeared and shimmery. And that’s when I realize—my eyes fucking HURT. These damned contacts. And he thinks I’m crying. Me! The woman who didn’t shed a tear at our wedding, three childbirths, or when I shattered my ankle falling off the porch last winter. Hell, as far as I remember, I haven’t cried since the ninth grade when Neil Hardesty took my virginity and dumped me a week later—which is something I would NEVER admit out loud. That boy was such a douche bag.

I sniff, then give Patrick a loving pat on the shoulder. The tears are still rolling as I smile up at him. I’m trying my damnedest not to laugh out loud at his bewildered expression—or the fact that he thinks there’s a bone in my body sentimental enough to make me cry real tears.

“No, honey. You ought to know better than that,” I chuckle, still wiping at my eyes. I let out a frustrated huff as I struggle not to smudge my mascara. “It’s these bloody contacts! I knew I should’ve just worn my glasses.”

He stares at me like I’m some kind of psycho, then lets out a sharp scoff.

“You’re such a dick.”

A crooked smirk tugs at my lips as I dab at the corners of my eyes. “That’s what you get for falling in love with a badass.”