Today is a happy day. My daughter is getting married today. My precious third child. My youngest. I smile as I watch my son-in-law caress her gently on the cheek. Taking a moment for themselves amidst the attention of their friends. It is their day after all.

The reception is tastefully decorated. Polaroids hung on raffia string allow friends and family insights into the couple’s life. Showing how they grew up. How they met. I do not need the photographs of my daughter, of course. I was there. I was always there.

My daughter is beautiful at thirty-six. I already had her when I was thirty-six. But this is another generation. She had dreams to pursue before wedding bells called. I wonder if she will give me a grandchild.

I shed a tear. My family sees me crying. They nod knowingly. Mothers are meant to cry at their daughter’s wedding. They know of love, but they do not know. That love is my breast removed. Cancer metastasized. That love is bad news unsaid. Kept inside. That love is. Love is. Love.