Love after heartbreak made me careful—but also hopeful. When my first marriage ended, Lucy was five, whispering, “It’s our cozy castle now,” as we moved into a tiny apartment. Then Ryan arrived—steady, kind—and treated her like an equal. When he proposed, she was my maid of honor, thrilled to wear the lilac crochet dress I made just for her. Crocheting had always been my calm—loop and breath until the world quieted. The dress fit her perfectly, bell sleeves and scalloped hem fluttering like fairy wings.
She checked on it every day, “just to make sure it’s still there.” Then, the morning before the wedding, she screamed. The dress lay in a heap—unraveled, stitch by deliberate stitch. I knew. Denise—Ryan’s mother—had called it “homemade,” like an insult. When I confronted her, she said, “I didn’t think it was appropriate. This isn’t a school play.”
That night, I posted photos of Lucy twirling in her dress and the pile of yarn. “You can’t undo love this way.” It went viral overnight. I stayed up remaking a simpler dress. Denise showed up in head-to-toe white and left furious when Ryan told her she wasn’t welcome. Lucy carried my bouquet down the aisle, radiant.
Six months later, I have a thriving crochet shop born from that post. People still call me “the crochet mom.” I never forgave Denise—but I didn’t need revenge. Some things can’t be unraveled. Love just rethreads itself—stronger than before.