When I think back to that day now, I don’t remember the flowers or the first dance. I remember Lucas’s terrified eyes, the hush over the courtyard, and the way Michael’s voice didn’t waver when he chose us in front of everyone. He didn’t soften his words or protect his mother’s pride. He protected a 12‑year‑old boy whose heart was hanging by a thread of yarn.

After Loretta left, the air felt lighter, like someone had opened a window in a suffocating room. People kept coming up to Lucas, asking about his stitches, his patterns, his ideas. Each kind word rewove something that had torn inside him. The adoption papers went through smoothly. The first time Lucas signed his new last name on a school form, he brought it home to show me, grinning. That dress in the glass case isn’t just lace and flowers. It’s proof that love is a choice you make out loud, even when it costs you blood.