After my divorce, I vowed never to marry againId focus entirely on my daughter, Poppy. Then along came Oliver: kind, patient, and brilliant with her. She took to him instantly, grinning whenever he walked in. When he proposed, I hesitateduntil Poppy squeezed my hand and whispered, Mum, please say yes. So I did.
Our wedding day in the Cotswolds was perfectuntil the moment Poppy, our flower girl, vanished just before her walk down the aisle. We tore through the venue until someone heard muffled sniffles from a broom cupboard. There she was, clutching her basket of petals, tears streaking her cheeks. Why was I in trouble, Mum? she asked, trembling. Then she pointed straight at the culprit.
My stomach dropped. It was MargaretOlivers mother.
Shes not even family, Margaret said icily. My proper granddaughter, Charlotte, shouldve had that role. The guests gasped. One uncle even choked on his Pimms. Without ceremony, Margaret was shown the door, still muttering about tradition.
I knelt beside Poppy, brushing petals from her dress. Its still your walk, love. If you want it. She squared her tiny shoulders and nodded.
The music swelled again. In a hush thick with awe, Poppy marched down the aisle, scattering roses like a warrior princess. The crowd eruptedeven the vicar wiped his eyes. At the end, she beamed up at me. Nailed it, she declared. And really, who could argue?
