Page 23

Magnolia Steel

Malie’s hands are magic but not the flashy kind. Quiet. Patient. Purposeful. Sacred.

I sit cross-legged beside her on a folded blanket, pandanus strips lying between us in neat bundles—thin, ivory ribbons with soft edges like silk.

This has become our rhythm. A few afternoons a week after work, while Alex is still at practice, I come here. No fanfare. No mention of it to anyone. Only me and his mother showing me how to make something that means everything.

I’ve stopped needing to count the motions. My hands remember what to do now—fold, thread, pull taut.

The mat stretched out on the floor isn’t for me. It’s for him. A gift. A tribute. A vow made to my husband-to-be with my own hands.

I glance at Malie, who watches my movements and gives a small nod.

This palagi is doing it right.

“You’re getting faster,” she says.

“I’m still slow as molasses.”

“Slow is fine. It means you’re putting care into it.”

I smile at that because I am.

“This is more than a gift,” she says, guiding a fresh strip into my fingers. “This is your promise to my son—woven by hand. Carried by your heart.”

I don’t respond to that. Because I can’t. My throat is too tight.

Malie told me once that a fine mat is never just an object. It’s memory. Legacy. It’s presented at births, weddings, and funerals. It holds stories in its weave. Each one can take months to complete, but I’m determined to finish this mat on time for our wedding.

I thread another strip through, careful and slow.

Each weave is a whisper of respect. Each knot is a vow to stand beside him, knowing exactly what that means. This mat isn’t decoration. It’s my tangible devotion to him.

He doesn’t know I’m doing this. Not yet. But when he sees it—when he understands what it is—I hope he feels every hour invested, every careful knot, every bit of love I weaved into it.

Our rhythm slows, and Malie’s hands are still over the fibers. “I have some bad news.”

I glance up, heart beating a little faster now. “What is it?”

Her fingers toy with a loose edge of pandanus, smoothing it once… twice… before she speaks.

“My father hasn’t been well. It’s more serious than we thought, and my mother refuses to leave his side. They won’t be able to travel for the wedding.”

My breath catches.

“Oh, Malie––”

“I haven’t told Aleki. He’s close to his grandparents, and I don’t think he’ll take it well.”

She swallows, her eyes locked on the mat between us. “He’ll smile and say it’s all right, he understands. But I know him, Magnolia. He’ll tuck it away—quiet and deep—and carry it in silence.”

She lifts her gaze, steady and soft. “That’s how he is. You need to understand that about your husband. How he conceals his pain.”

My chest aches because she’s right. Alex isn’t a man who outwardly shatters. He folds quietly and without complaint.

I reach for her hand, holding it. She doesn’t cry, but her silence is loud.

“What if we bring the wedding to them?”

Her eyes lift, wide and disbelieving.

“We can do one ceremony here as we planned. Then we can go to Samoa and do it again with your parents and everyone there.”

She stares at me, and a huge smile blooms. “You would do that?”

“Of course.”

Her fingers tighten around mine. And when she leans in to kiss my forehead, I feel her breath against my skin.

“Oh, lo’u afafine, you are such a blessing to our family.”

The words settle in my heart.

And just like that, Malie and I decide—together––without Alex.

The mat we’re weaving won’t be for the Sydney ceremony. It’s only fitting for it to be for our second wedding in Samoa.

For the part of Alex’s soul that lives on the island.

For the family that shaped the man I love.

For all the people who deserve to see him stand in his joy.

We roll up the mat and place it in its secret resting spot, then settle on the back patio with glasses of chilled white wine in hand. Something crisp and dry, a variety that pairs well with good company and warm air.

She takes a sip, then angles her head toward me with a look that’s all mischief and knowing.

“Tell me about the girl with the clever mouth and lion’s heart. The one always locking horns with Elias.”

I laugh into my glass as I take a drink. “Violet. She’s coming to Sydney for a six-month job assignment. Alex made a quiet call and pulled a few strings to make it happen.”

Malie arches one brow. “So your fiancé has matchmaking talents now?”

I grin. “I’m leaning more toward a heart too big for his chest.”

She nods at that because she knows exactly what kind of man she raised.

“What does Violet hope to gain here?”

I hesitate for a beat, wanting to answer her honestly—but also wanting to protect what’s still unfolding between Violet and Elias. It’s not my story to tell. But I can share what matters. What’s real.

“Violet wants marriage and children.” I glance up, smiling. “He’s the first man she’s ever been able to see herself sharing those things with.”

Malie hums, and I can see that she’s pleased.

Oh, what the hell. This is Violet we’re talking about. She’s not known to be subtle.

“She took one look at him and decided then and there she wanted to have his babies,” I add with a laugh.

Malie lets out a full, rich laugh of her own. “Then maybe we’ll have another wedding soon.”

I bump her shoulder with mine. “You’ll have another palagi to teach weaving to.”

Her laughter softens, turns fond. “I wouldn’t mind having another palagi around.”

Malie nods, eyes bright with a pride that only comes from seeing your children on the edge of something good.

She leans her head back against the chair, eyes half closed, smile still playing at the corner of her mouth. “You weren’t born into this family. But you choose us, and we choose you. We claim you as ours.”

Here on this porch, I realize something simple and deep: this family isn’t only something I’m marrying into. It’s something I’m becoming part of.

Line by line. Word by word. Thread by thread.

Not by blood.

But by love.