days shaped the next fifty-six years of my life.
We married in my parents’ backyard while he was home on leave.
There were twenty-three guests, folding chairs borrowed from church, and a homemade wedding cake that leaned embarrassingly to one side.
My mother cried almost throughout the ceremony.
Later, James teased her while holding a paper cup of punch.
“Don’t cry, Mrs. Doyle. I’m only borrowing your daughter. I’m not stealing her.”
My mother lifted the cake knife toward him.
“You bring her back happy, James. Otherwise, you’ll answer to
