In my palm is a beautiful gold cuff bracelet. Three small stones—a heart-shaped pebble, an adder stone with a hole in it and a piece of pale blue beach glass—are set between three diamonds.

“I had the bracelet made by a jeweler in Chicago,” she says. “I ‘borrowed’ the stones from your front porch while I was here. I thought they were perfect.”

“They are,” I say, welling up again. “Oh, Trish. I don’t know what to say.”

“I do,” she says. “I love you. And I’m so, so happy and proud to call you my friend.”

She hugs me and places the bracelet on my wrist. There is a soft knock on the door, and Evan peeks his head inside. “Mind if I come in?” he asks.

“I’ll let you two have a minute,” Trish says. “It’s time for a drink anyway. Evan, did you bring any of your fraternity brothers?”

Evan laughs, and I pretend to cover my ears.

“I did,” he says.

“And they’re over twenty-one?” she asks.

“They are,” he says. “Should I warn them?”

Trish rolls her eyes. “You should congratulate them,” she says with a big laugh. Then she leans in and kisses him on the cheek. “You done good, Adie Lou.”

“I know,” I say, studying my son as Trish closes the door. “You look handsome,” I say.

“Thanks, Mom,” he says, ducking his head.

Uncomfortable in his black tux, with his hair slicked back, he resembles a small boy who has been forced to dress up for church. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a bow tie. “Can you help?” he asks. “I can’t tie it right, and neither can any of my friends. We tried to watch a YouTube video, but everything’s backward.”

I smile. “What are moms for?” I ask. I line up the bow tie and begin to tie it, adjusting it as I go, before making a bow and then tightening it just-so. “There.”

“Where’d you learn to do that?” he asks.

“Your father,” I say. “The man loves his bow ties.”

Evan laughs. “I’m just a little nervous, to be honest.” He holds out his hands. “See?” They are trembling.

“Oh, honey,” I say. “Are you okay?” I stop. “Is this all okay? I thought...”

“It is, Mom,” he says. “I really like Scooter. You and him are a perfect match. It’s just that...well...I feel like Grampa should be giving you away. Is it okay that a son walks his mom down the aisle?”

“You don’t have to do it if you don’t want,” I say.

“No, I do,” he says. “It just feels like...we’re all grown up now, aren’t we, Mom?” His cheeks quiver.

“We are, sweetheart,” I say, holding out my arms. “But you’ll always be my baby, and I’ll always be your mom.”

“I know,” he whispers, hugging me tightly.