Yesterday afternoon, I walked my daughter down the aisle of her future husband’s church. She is my youngest daughter, the last to leave the nest. I slowed down, partly to be careful not to step on her wedding dress, which was as white as freshly fallen snow, but couldn’t be as clean and new as my daughter’s young heart. Her slow walk allowed him to enjoy her a little more in the moment, and a church full of loving people smiled at her, stole pictures of her, and offered her joyful compliments as she passed by.

The pastor asked me a simple question: “Who gives this woman to marry this man?” He knew what he was supposed to say. He was supposed to say that he was letting go of one of the most valuable people in my life. Her future husband is a Christian. He loves my daughter very much and he has promised me that he will take care of her. His entire family and his church have already welcomed my daughter into their lives. She should smile broadly, say what she was supposed to say, and let the happy event happen. However, at that time, I was forced to see my daughter as a woman, not as my girl. My wife experienced that moment the day before.

Our house was full of guests from out of town. They all took the opportunity to say something to my daughter while she was there. Mainly, I entertained the men, both old and young, while the women, old and young, showered my daughter with love. Suddenly, I heard my wife cry. She had just been happy the whole time she was preparing for this wedding, and make no mistake, it was my wife who arranged everything. My job was to pay the bills, not get upset about how good those bills were, and not get into the details. Until I heard her cry, I didn’t realize the emotional baggage my wife was carrying.

“My daughter walked out my front door,” my wife yelled at me, “and she will never come back as my girl!” My daughter was having a bachelorette party that night with her cousins ​​and friends. She would sleep with them and go directly to the place where the reception would be held after the wedding. It was there that my wife and other women helped her and the girls in her wedding party to do her hair and dress her. That was where we would have the post-wedding reception of her dreams at the plantation house of the founder of Planter’s Peanut. She had come from that place and walked down the hall with me to where I was asked a question.

“His mother and me,” slipped out of my mouth. I said it forcefully, and she had a smile on my face. I kissed my daughter on the cheek, put her arm on her young woman’s arm. I whispered, “Take care of her as well as I have.”