Wedding day. My father walks me down the aisle. We exchange vows, and everyone is emotional, clapping, and cheering us on.
But suddenly, I notice a group of people approaching from a distance, carrying something.
As they got closer, I couldn’t believe my eyes.
THEY WERE CARRYING A COFFIN WITH A BOW ON TOP!
They brought it all the way to the altar, set it down, and simply walked away. The entire place fell into a deathly silence.
One of my husband’s friends stepped forward and slowly lifted the lid.
I almost fainted when I saw that inside was…a pile of old photographs, handwritten letters, and a single sealed envelope resting atop them. For a second, I didn’t know what to think.
The sight of a coffin at a wedding was unsettling enough, but to realize it was filled with personal keepsakes felt even more bizarre.
My first instinct was to step back and let someone else deal with it.
Yet the envelope bore my name in delicate script. Shaking, I reached in and picked it up.
I could feel every eye on me as I carefully opened the letter. My new husband, Brandon, put a reassuring hand on my shoulder.
My father, Henry, stood behind me, bracing me with silent strength.
I took a deep breath and began to read.
“Dear Lila,” it started. “If you are reading this, it means the day I’ve hoped for, your wedding day, has finally arrived.
I’m so proud of you.
I’m sorry I couldn’t be there in person to see how beautiful you look and to watch you walk down the aisle. But I wanted to leave you something special—something that might help you remember who you are and where you come from, even as you begin a new chapter of your life.”
The signature at the bottom was my mother’s.
She had passed away when I was fifteen.
My eyes stung with tears as I turned to Brandon, whose own eyes reflected shock and curiosity.
My mother’s words were like a voice from the past, gently reminding me that even though she was gone, her love for me was always present.
I looked back inside the coffin. Nestled among the photographs was an old crocheted blanket. It was the blanket I used to snuggle under when I was a toddler—my mother had made it by hand.
I also noticed a small box of little trinkets: a tiny porcelain shoe I once loved, a rusted key that belonged to my grandfather’s home, a cameo brooch my mother used to wear on special occasions.
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
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