Epilogue
Twenty-six years later
Lizzie
It’s my daughter’s wedding day.
Her wedding day.
And I’m about to help her put the dress on.
“It’s just the zip at the back, Mom,” Nataly says, turning around.
I take a slow breath as I step closer, reaching for the zipper.
I take a slow breath as I stand in her bedroom and reach for the zipper.
The same bedroom she’s had for years—pink comforter, pink striped walls, and what she has always called her princess bed, the iron frame curling into delicate swirls at the top.
I can’t quite believe this day is here.
Our little girl is twenty-one. And she’s getting married.
I haven’t had much time to stop and think about it today. The whole morning has been a blur—hair appointments, makeup, phone calls, people coming and going. Everything has been go, go, go.
But now, as I zip her dress up, the moment finally catches up to me.
She’s all grown up.
And suddenly this white dress reminds me of another white dress she wore almost eleven years ago now, at our vow renewal.
The celebration Nate and I finally had on our fifteen-year anniversary—the big one I had always dreamed about.
I wore white that day, too, and Nataly was the flower girl, scattering petals down the aisle with the biggest little smile on her face.
We stood in church surrounded by friends and family, celebrating fifteen years of marriage.
And now here she is… putting on her own white dress.
“There you go,” I say softly, finishing the zipper.
She turns around and looks up at me.
“What do you think?” she asks, smoothing down the front of the dress before stepping toward the mirror.
Then she stops.
“Oh no.”
“What is it?” I ask quickly, my brows knitting together.
“I feel like I look like I have a pouch.” She pinches the tiniest bit of fabric over her stomach.
She’s always been a little too critical of herself.
“Nataly, you look amazing. There’s no pouch there,” I say honestly.
“Are you sure?” she asks, glancing at me sideways.
My expression softens. I recognize that look. She’s not really asking about the dress.
She just wants to know she’s beautiful today.
“Filhinha, you’re so beautiful,” I say, gently taking her arms and turning her to face me. “This dress looks incredible on you. It fits your figure perfectly. I don’t even think it’s possible to look like you have a pouch in this. It hugs you in all the right places.”
She exhales slowly, her shoulders relaxing. A bright smile curls up on her face. “Well… I know you’re always one to tell the truth.”
I grin back. She remembers far too many moments when I’ve been bluntly honest about things.
“If it did look bad—even remotely bad—you know I’d try to fix it. I wouldn’t let you walk out in it. But you know you could wear just—”
“A trash bag—”
“And still look good.”
We both finish the sentence at the same time, and she beams up at me. I’ve told her that for years.
“I’m sure it’s been on a catwalk somewhere,” she adds with a shrug.
“Well, it’s a good thing this dress is significantly better than a trash bag.”
I wrap my arms around her and pull her into a hug. The beaded sweetheart neckline catches the light as she leans into me, the dress fitted beautifully through her waist before trailing into a soft and subtle fishtail train.
“Alright,” I say, giving her shoulders a little squeeze. “Time for the veil and shoes. Then we need to go.”
If I linger too long, I might start crying. And it’s far too early for that.
“Ah! Let’s go!” Nataly lifts the front of her dress and hurries out toward the living room where the other girls are getting ready.
Just like that, she’s back in full focus mode.
When Nataly sets her mind on something, nothing distracts her. Today she’s determined that everything will go smoothly—and she’s ready to get out of this house and down the aisle.
As I step into the hallway, I see Nate coming out of his office.
I walk over and grab his arm.
“Go look at her and tell her she looks beautiful,” I whisper.
He’s been in full logistical mode all morning, making sure the car is downstairs and everything is ready. But the moment he looks up and sees her standing there in her dress, he pauses.
I can see it happening in real time. Our little girl.
The one he’s always been fiercely protective of—a little too protective most of the time.
And now she’s about to start her own life.
He walks over slowly.
“Filha, you look beautiful,” he says, taking her arms and kissing each cheek.
“Thanks, Papai,” she says shyly.
Nate is actually helping lead part of the ceremony today, alongside Nathan’s pastor from Northern Ireland—who, ironically enough, is American.
Nathan used to live in Northern Ireland before moving to London, but he and Nataly somehow ended up meeting in Dublin.
On my birthday, of all days. She felt terrible about missing it that year.
Now here we are, my own little gift—I get to call Nathan a son.
God really did give her a meet-cute.
The girls gather around her, voices rising as they all tell her how amazing she looks.
“Okay girls—time to go!” Nataly claps her hands and grabs her bouquet.
When Nataly is focused on something, she’s determined to stay focused on it.
Within minutes we’re all heading down to the car.
Once we’re seated, I glance at the clock on my phone. Two o’clock. She’s early.
I glance at Nate and mouth silently: Too early.
He looks back at me and shrugs before slipping his arm around my shoulders.
“You look lovely today,” he says quietly. I glance down at my dress.
“I wasn’t sure about it earlier,” I admit. “But I’m glad you like it.”
He presses a quick kiss to my temple.
I can hardly believe it. Our little girl—early for her wedding, when she’s usually five minutes late for everything—is stepping into a new life. I glance at Nate and reflect on how we’ve raised her. He’s always been overprotective, yes, but always fiercely loving.
Bea and Daniel are here too—grown and married. Daniel’s little girl is the flower girl, and suddenly life feels like it’s come full circle.
Life hasn’t been easy, but God has been faithful. Every twist, every struggle, every heartache has led to this day. His hand is unmistakable.
I squeeze Nate’s hand, whispering, “She’s ready.”
Nate is on the dance floor.
I repeat, Nate is on the dance floor.
My husband—the man I’ve spent decades with, the pastor, the disciplined, orderly man—has never once been caught dancing. And now he’s out there, spinning and smiling, laughing with everyone.
“Is that Dad… on the dance floor?” Nataly grabs my arm, incredulous.
His grin is wide, joyous, freeing.
“I don’t think you got any of your dancing skills from either of us,” I say into her ear.
She laughs, shaking her head. “Clearly I inherited my rhythm from elsewhere.” She beams, then turns back to watch him. “I just can’t believe he’s doing it! That makes me so happy. And that literally everyone else is out there too.”
I know she’s breathing a sigh of relief.
She wanted everyone to enjoy today. The day has had its share of chaos: traffic, tardy guests, tiny hiccups—but the energy on the floor proves what truly matters.
The dance floor just shows how much they’ve got the right crowd.
It’s not perfect timing, it’s not flawless execution—it’s the people, the joy, the celebration of God’s promises.
That’s what everyone will remember—not how trendy it was or what went wrong, but how it felt. And everyone’s just having fun.
And to be honest, I don’t think I’ve ever seen a wedding like this before. There’s not a single person sitting down.
Nathan appears beside us. “Look,” he points. “Gran’s on the dance floor.”
I look over at his grandmother, in her eighties, dancing away.
“She hasn’t gotten on the dance floor since Grandad died ten years ago,” he continues.
I glance over at Nathan, his face softened.
I squeeze Nathan’s arm, smiling at the sight.
“Should we hit the photo booth?” he asks.
“Yessss, let’s go!” Nataly drags me, laughter spilling from her lips.
We suit up in all the wacky props—cowboy hats, oversized sunglasses—and pose, laughing until our sides hurt. Nataly adores photos, cherishes them, and this is her playground.
We exit the booth, and Nate strolls over.
“Well, you’ve been having fun,” I grin.
He chuckles. “It’s been a good floor, what can I say?”
“I never would’ve thought I’d see you dancing. Ever.” I admit, laughing.
“Well, after twenty-five years together it seems that I still have some surprises up my sleeve,” he teases.
“It sure does seem so,” I murmur, resting my head on his shoulder, arm wrapped around his.
I watch our daughter whirl among friends. They did the Harlem Shake as their first dance, and I think even one of the groomsmen has sweaty knees right now.
Who knew knees could sweat like that?
But what fills me with wonder is seeing the fruits of our marriage: love reflected in our daughter, her happiness, her new beginning. She’s always loved our love story—and now she’s living her own, with a man I’m proud to call my son-in-law.
I close my eyes for a moment, letting it sink in. The music, the laughter, the love… God’s hand in everything.
I’m so excited to see the stories God will continue to write—in our lives and others.
For now, I’ll simply soak up this one perfect, joy-filled part of His story.