Walter and I paid for most of our wedding ourselves, which made every little detail feel personal. It wasn’t extravagant, but it was ours—a farmhouse B&B with a warm old hall, soft lights, and enough charm that we barely needed decorations.

During the reception, my parents pulled me aside near the gift table.

My mother held out a thick envelope. Her hands were trembling just a little.

“Elena, sweetheart,” she said softly, “your father and I wanted to give you and Walter something to help you start your life.”

I smiled, already emotional. “You didn’t have to do anything big. Having you here is enough.”

My father cleared his throat. “We saved five thousand dollars. Use it for a home, a honeymoon… anything that helps you breathe a little easier.”

Five thousand dollars.

I knew what that meant in my parents’ house. That wasn’t spare money. That was sacrifice. That was skipped dinners out, old shoes worn longer than they should’ve been, and months of quiet saving.

“Dad,” I whispered, “that’s too much.” Five thousand dollars.

I knew what that meant in my parents’ house. That wasn’t spare money. That was sacrifice. That was skipped dinners out, old shoes worn longer than they should’ve been, and months of quiet saving.

“Dad,” I whispered, “that’s too much.”

He squeezed my hand. “You’re our daughter. Nothing we give you is too much.”

I hugged them both, then walked over to place the envelope with the other gifts.

Before I reached the table, Beatrice appeared.