I felt genuine joy watching my daughter build a relationship considerably more aligned with the values Margaret had quietly modeled throughout her entire life, understanding, completely, exactly how far Renata had traveled since that devastating afternoon four hours after her mother’s funeral.
I attended their wedding, held in a considerably modest venue compared to Renata’s first, extravagant ceremony with Desmond years earlier.
“This feels considerably more like Mom would have actually wanted,” Renata told me, during the reception. “Simple. Genuine. Built on something real rather than elaborate performance.”
“She would have loved this,” I confirmed. “Considerably more than she ever loved the extravagant version, honestly.”
