Chapter 6: Something Borrowed, Something Brave

The old-country tradition went like this: six steps—proposal, exchanging names, engagement gifts, engagement, setting the date, welcoming the bride.

An auspicious day, perfect for a wedding.

Bathing, grooming, makeup, hair combing—

First comb, to the ends of your hair.

Second comb, may you grow old together.

Third comb, may you have many children.

Fourth comb, may you be joined forever.

…

Such an old song—I used to watch old ladies comb new brides’ hair and wonder what it felt like.

Now it was my turn, and I still felt excited and amazed—

How life could unfold so lightly from a single strand, stretching from past to future. It was truly wonderful.

Would I one day comb someone’s hair and bless them, too?

I pictured myself as an old woman, surrounded by laughter and love. It felt possible, for the first time.

“The Morrison family’s here to fetch the bride!”

The housekeeper brought the news, bustling in, bowing with a smile. “I don’t know the details, but everyone says it’s wonderful!”

Her cheeks were flushed with excitement. I felt my own nerves fluttering.

She gestured, “Not a single stumble—one song after another!”

The house was filled with music and laughter. I closed my eyes, letting it wash over me. For once, I let myself just feel it.

Mom laughed, “He’s thoughtful, and he cares.”

Her voice was proud, a little wistful. I squeezed her hand, grateful.

I didn’t know why, but with everyone praising him, I felt embarrassed and joked, “Maybe he’s just afraid of messing up and wrote himself a cheat sheet!”

The roomful of women laughed, “That’s thoughtful too!”

Their laughter was warm, a cocoon of safety. I smiled, feeling lighter.

When all was ready, the pastor’s wife said, “The bride should cry now.”

Mom scolded, “What’s there to cry about? We’re right here—you can come home anytime!”

She grew sentimental, “Better not to cry. From now on, may everything go smoothly, with smiles from start to finish.”

She taught me to hold the lace fan over my face. Through its hazy veil, I saw her raise her sleeve, then quickly lower it, urging me, “The wedding party’s here—don’t miss the lucky hour.”

She always seemed so calm and composed, but her heart was the heaviest of all.

Saying goodbye, my parents, always reserved, lingered this time.

Everyone was smiling, but there was a quiet restraint, a few tears wiped away.

I guess sending off a daughter is always like this—

Watching a little girl grow up, until the oak tree in the yard is thick with leaves, the homemade cider is fragrant, and she walks out in white to start her own story.

I kept my head down, smiling, not daring to look up.

Outside, it was noisy again.

Guests crowded the porch, joking and blocking the way, demanding treats and drinks.

Neighbors called out blessings, tossing rice and confetti. The air was thick with joy and a little chaos.

Amid the ruckus, I sat in the car, holding my fan, feeling dazed and nervous.

Only when Caleb came out to ask everyone not to delay the wedding did I snap back to reality.

He looked handsome in his suit, cheeks flushed with excitement. For a moment, I forgot to be nervous.

I remembered the groomsman at the party who bit his own arm, and bit my lip, hands sweaty.

Finally at the Morrison house, I stepped over the threshold and rug, the groom shot three Nerf arrows, and the crowd cheered.

I peeked at the guests—

Red grapes, peanuts, dried cranberries, chocolate chips—all the usual.

Apple cider, white wine, beer, lemonade—Mrs. Morrison seemed eager to show off everything they had.

The table was loaded—food, drinks, you name it. I felt a little dizzy, to be honest.

Caleb, probably tipsy, laid his head in his mom’s lap.

His mom sighed, “Now that Caleb has a home…”

She stroked his hair, tears in her eyes. I looked away, giving them their moment.

Maybe because of etiquette, maybe nerves, even behind the fan I didn’t dare look at him.

Caleb stood before me, head slightly turned, matching his steps to mine, never missing a beat.

He reached for my hand, fingers trembling. I squeezed back, letting him know I was there.

“Is the Morrison family marrying off a daughter?!”

Someone teased.

“Look—groom’s blushing!”

A rare sight! If Mom hadn’t warned me not to lift the fan, I’d have teased him more.

Maybe he was annoyed—I heard someone laugh, “Caleb Morrison, it’s your big day—don’t get mad, settle scores tomorrow!”

Caleb must have smiled—out of the corner of my eye, I saw him rub his fingers, suddenly calm.

It felt like the inevitable, a scene bound to come.

All around—

Veterans drinking in big mugs, professors toasting each other.

Reminiscing about old times, sighing over children.

Reserved women, heads bowed like lilies.

Bold girls, heads high like sunflowers.

Kids running wild with pinwheels.

Caleb’s classmates bowing and joking, the air full of joy.

The town doctor, usually reserved, drank a few cups, cheeks flushed.

The old pastor had a few sips, smiling like she’d found her youth again.

Raucous drinking games, elegant trivia contests.

White wine, sweet cider.

High and low, all together.

Whether witty or simple, it all fit together.

Getting married was exhausting.

Luckily, the Morrison family wasn’t into pranks, and Mrs. Morrison took pity on my quiet act. After tossing grapes, peanuts, cranberries, and chocolate chips on the bed and saying some lucky words, everyone left.

The room finally quieted, the chaos fading into a hush so soft I could hear my own heartbeat.