Is this real life? Am I really about to marry Dylan Williamston?
The thought sends butterflies racing through my stomach—not from fear, but from a joy so profound it almost hurts.
The small cabin at the Christmas tree farm feels like something out of a fairy tale. The rustic wooden walls are adorned with sprigs of evergreen and white ribbon. My bouquet—winter roses and evergreen sprigs wrapped in satin ribbon—waits on a weathered vanity.
It’s simple and elegant, just like the day Dylan and I are creating together.
December in Georgia is surprisingly gentle. Sunlight streams through the cabin’s windows. Outside, rows of Christmas trees create a natural aisle where I’ll soon be walking toward my future.
I stand in front of the antique mirror, barely recognizing the woman staring back at me. White lace hugs my curves, soft against my skin.
“Hold still or this veil is going to be crooked,” Genna says.
I watch in the mirror as she adjusts the delicate tulle around my face. Her eyes meet mine in the reflection, and I see the shimmer of unshed tears.
“You look so beautiful, Chey.” She smiles. “And I can’t believe that we’re about to becomesisters!”
The word ‘sisters’ hits me right in the chest, making my own eyes water. “If you make me cry and ruin this makeup you spent an hour on, I’ll never forgive you.”
She laughs, squeezing my hand. “Worth it.”
I turn to face her, taking in her emerald-green bridesmaid dress that complements the Christmas setting perfectly. “I never thought I’d be here,” I admit. “Standing in a wedding dress, about to marry your brother.”
“I did,” she says with confidence. “From the moment I saw him look at you that New Year’s Eve. He never looked at anyone else that way.”
A soft knock interrupts us. The door creaks open, and my heart skips a beat as my mother steps into the room. She lookselegant in her pale blue dress, her dark hair—the same shade as mine—swept up in a chignon. She’s flown all the way from Europe for this day, and seeing her standing here makes everything feel even more real.
“Mom,” I breathe.
She crosses the room, arms outstretched. “My beautiful girl.” She embraces me carefully to avoid wrinkling my dress. When she pulls back, her eyes are wet. “I’m so proud of you, Cheyenne. So proud.”
Her words fill me with warmth. Since that Christmas night two years ago when she texted me that photo, something shifted between us. Weekly calls instead of monthly. Real conversations instead of surface-level small talk. She’s made an effort, and so have I.
“I’m glad you’re here.” I squeeze her hands. “It wouldn’t be the same without you.”
“I wouldn’t have missed it for the world,” she replies, tucking a loose strand of hair behind my ear.
Genna discreetly wipes away a tear. “I’m gonna go check on the guys and make sure my brother isn’t having a nervous breakdown.” She hugs me quickly. “Five minutes, Chey. Then it’s showtime.”
After she leaves, my mom helps me with my earrings. As she fastens them, I catch her gaze in the mirror.
“We’re better now, aren’t we?” I ask.
She nods, her hands resting on my shoulders. “We are. I wasted too much time, Cheyenne. Thinking my life in Europe was somehow separate from you. I was wrong.” She presses a kiss to my temple. “Thank you for giving me another chance to be your mother.”
I cover her hand with mine, no words needed. Through the window, I watch guests being seated on wooden benches arranged between tall evergreens. Familiar faces—Dylan’s teammates with their wives and girlfriends, my colleagues from work, friends we’ve made together over the past year. Mr. and Mrs. Williamston are greeting people with warm smiles, already seated in the front row.
My fingers find my bracelet. It’s the gift that started it all. The silver chain still holds the little dog that looks just like Jhett, but now there are a few more charms: a heart with our initials for our first anniversary, a tiny hockey stick for the game that changed everything, and a clock frozen at midnight—for the kiss that did too. I touch it for luck, for strength, for the reminder of how far we’ve come.
Two years of loving Dylan has taught me that I never needed to make myself smaller. I just needed someone who appreciated my full size, my complete self. Someone who saw me—really saw me—and chose me anyway. Because of who I am, not in spite of it.
“It’s time!” Genna calls through the door.
Mom takes both my hands in hers. “Ready?”
I nod. “More than I’ve ever been for anything.”
The ceremony unfolds like a dream. I walk with my mom between rows of Christmas trees, my heels sinking slightly into the soft ground with each step. The December sun acts as nature’s own cathedral lighting, casting a golden glow through the branches. Music plays softly—the acoustic guitar version of “Can’t Help Falling in Love” that we chose together.
