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“You made it yours, Mom,” I say softly. “That’s the part that hurt most. I wanted you to see me, not what you wanted to fix.”

"I never meant to make it about me! Oh, my God, I'm just like my mother!" she gasps in horror.

The moms sit together, finally quiet. The silence isn’t brittle this time. It’s soft. Stretching. Sacred.

This is what honesty sounds like.

Matt watches them with the patience and wisdom of someone who’s done a hundred weddings and presided over at least that many therapy sessions disguised as premarital counseling.

“You know,” he says gently, “what you just did—sharing your feelings instead of controlling the situation— that’s how you connect with your kids.

Not by planning the menu or bulldozing through the flower arrangements.

But by opening your heart. Saying the hard things and trusting them to love you anyway. ”

Fiona sniffs, eyes still glassy. She turns to Hamish, then takes a shaky breath.

“I’m sorry, son,” she says, voice barely above a whisper. “I didna mean ta hurt ye. I was just sae scared. But I see now that I’ve been pushin’ ye away by tryin’ ta hold on too tight.”

Hamish steps forward without hesitation and wraps her in a hug so fierce, it lifts her an inch off her chair. “Ye’ll never lose me, Mum. I promise.”

Mom, who has been quietly dabbing at her eyes with a cocktail napkin (with a tiny drawing of a goat stomping on a heart, because of course ), turns to me.

“I’m sorry too, honey,” she says, voice trembling. “I didn’t see what I was doing. Carol ran away. Shannon's wedding was, well… I probably went a tiny bit over the top."

"TINY?" Dad and I both shout at the same time.

She winces. "I thought I was helping. I didn’t realize I was steamrolling your joy.”

“You were trying your best,” I say, already in her arms. “But now you know better.”

Fiona lets go of Hamish and turns to me. “Come here, Amy. I'm sorry fer how I treated ye, too. Ye didna deserve most of what I said.”

Most?

Eh. Close enough.

I don’t hesitate. The hug is awkward and clumsy and smells faintly of whisky and tension, but it’s real. And when Hamish joins, it becomes one giant, sniffly group hug.

Behind us, I hear a quiet “Thank God.”

It’s Dad, rubbing his forehead with one hand, the other on Fergus’s shoulder.

Fergus nods. “Aye. Finally.” He exhales like he’s been holding his breath for a year. “Can we maybe no’ elope wi' international drama next time?”

"Only doin' this once, Da," Hamish declares.

Damn right.

A long, collective exhale settles over the table. The kind that says Okay. That happened. Mom dabs at her eyes with a cocktail napkin. Fiona mutters something about mascara not being waterproof enough for family trauma.

Then Nessa straightens, the picture of calm crisis management. “Right. So, tomorrow, the wedding. Clothing. I need everyone to report in with their bathing suit status.”

There’s a beat of silence.

“Bathing suit?” Fiona asks, eyes darting nervously.

“Hot springs wedding,” Hamish reminds her gently.

“Oh, of course,” she says, as if it’s perfectly normal to forget you’re attending a wedding at a natural geologic feature. “Tha’s no’ what I expected ta wear as mother of the groom. Ye’re, ah, serious about that, son? A wedding in a hot springs?"

"Aye," he replies with just enough growl to issue a warning.

Jason frowns. “I don’t own a bathing suit.”

“You own swim trunks,” Mom corrects him. “You just call them ‘that one pair of cutoffs I don’t hate.’”

Fergus waves a hand. “I dinna care what I wear. I’ll show up in ma drawers if I must.”

“Please don’t,” I say, and Fiona chimes in with, “Aye, no one needs ta see that glory twice.”

Hamish groans. “Stop. Please stop.”

Mom looks around. “Wait, does everyone have a towel?”

Nessa holds up her phone. “I’ve got it. I’ll coordinate the towels, bathing suits, outdoor heaters, and heat packs for post-ceremony shivering.

It is early November in Maine, after all.

We could wake up to six inches of snow. Matt, you’re on backup vow rescue duty if anyone forgets their lines.

Archie’s running paparazzi patrol until zero hour. ”

“Should I pick a code name?” Matt asks.

“I think God's Gift works,” Nessa replies with a loving smirk.

Fergus tugs Fiona onto his lap and wraps his arms around her. “I call dibs on the inflatable flamingo float.”

“It’s a spring, Fergus,” she says flatly. “No flamingoes allowed.”

“Then I’ll bring ma own. An emotional support flamingo.”

Jason slips his arm around Mom. “Honey, I love you, but you’re returning those sex toys tomorrow. Eight hundred dollars?”

She lifts her chin. “I do what I want."

Hamish groans and tips his head against my shoulder. “How are they worse than us?”

“I didn’t think it was possible,” I murmur back.

“I think I need a support flamingo, too.”

Nessa makes a note on her phone.

And even though my cheeks hurt from smiling, it’s perfect.

This is our family. Weird, messy, loving.

Mine.

Ours.

Hamish kisses me slow and soft, with one hand on my cheek, the other squeezing mine under the table.

Tomorrow, I get to marry him.

Hot springs, inflatable flamingos, and all.