Tiny.
Almost pleading.
A few guests wiped at their eyes already.
I kept going.
“When Mason was six, he tried to shave like his father and accidentally took off one eyebrow.”
A ripple of laughter moved through the room.
“He was so embarrassed that he locked himself in the bathroom. He thought everyone would laugh when they saw him.”
Mason reached for my hand.
“He thought everyone would laugh when they saw him.”
“Maribel knocked once, walked in, picked up the razor, and shaved off one of her own.”
The laughter vanished.
“She did not tell him to be brave,” I said, my gaze locked on Maribel. “She did not tell him it was silly. She simply refused to let him stand alone in his embarrassment.”
Maribel’s fingers moved to the edge of her scarf.
And stopped.
“She simply refused to let him stand alone in his embarrassment.”
“You have done that your whole life,” I told her. “You made room for people at their worst moments. You laughed first when someone needed mercy. You made everyone else feel safe being seen.”
The room held itself still.
“Over the last few months, you started telling us you might skip pictures. You might leave early. You might stand in the back. You said young people should be the ones everyone remembers.”
The room held itself still.
I stepped away from the center of the floor.
Mason moved with me.
“Today, everyone came expecting to watch us promise we would stand beside each other for the rest of our lives.”
I looked at him.
“But before we could make that promise to each other, we wanted to honor the woman who taught us how.”
Mason moved with me.
