The label was faded, but the stitched letters were clear: “Made for Walter Hendricks, 1962.” Beneath it, in thin blue ink, someone had written a short line: “For the day my granddaughter marries.” My throat went dry. I had never heard that name. Natalie squeezed my fingers and whispered, “I wanted him here today. This was the only way I knew how.”

Behind us, an elderly woman in the second row covered her mouth and began to cry. Natalie’s mom stepped into the aisle, trembling, holding a small envelope. “Natalie never knew him,” she said softly, “because I never told her the truth about her grandfather.” Guests stopped whispering. The officiant lowered his book. Natalie turned to me with tears shining and said, “Please, let her finish before you say anything.”