“It’s timeless,” she corrected gently, as though the distinction mattered more than anything else. Then she looked at me in a way that made me stop smiling. “Promise me, Lila. You’ll alter it yourself, and you’ll wear it. Not just for me, but for you. So you’ll know I’m there.”
I didn’t fully understand what she meant, but I promised her anyway. Of course I did. She had raised me. She was my whole world.
My mother had died when I was five. I remember very little about her, just fragments. A soft voice. The faint smell of lavender. A pair of hands that felt warm and safe. According to Grandma Leah, my father had left before I was born and never came back. That was all I was told. Over time, I stopped asking questions. Whenever I tried, she would grow quiet in a way that made it clear I was stepping into something she didn’t want to revisit.
So I let it be. I had her, and that was enough.
I grew up in her house, surrounded by routines that became the foundation of my life. As I got older, I moved to the city, built a career, and started carving out a life of my own. But every weekend, without fail, I drove back to see her. Home wasn’t a place. It was wherever she was.
Then Julian came into my life, and everything shifted again. He was kind, patient, and grounded in a way that made the future feel less uncertain. When he proposed, it wasn’t dramatic or elaborate. It was quiet and sincere, exactly like him.
