Bright and beautiful, her mother’s dress flowed around her ankles. Creaseless and ironed twice, it was the perfect addition to her marital glow.
Radiating all kinds of happiness, Bess walked down the aisle, her arm locked in mine. In health and in sickness, I’d stood by her side, supporting her throughout to achieve her dreams and assure her desires—just as I’d vowed.
For twenty-seven years we relied on each other, for breakfast and warm clothes to a shoulder to cry on over heartbreaks and breakups. None other came between us—for I am hers, and she mine.