The Uninvited Guest: A Wedding Day Surprise
The morning of my wedding dawned with perfect clarity, as if the universe itself had conspired to give me the day I’d always dreamed of. Sunlight streamed through the lace curtains of the bridal suite, casting delicate patterns across the hardwood floor where my wedding dress hung, pristine and waiting. I stood by the window, coffee in hand, watching early birds flit between blooming cherry trees on the grounds of the Bellewood Estate.
“Nervous?” Charlotte asked, appearing beside me. My maid of honor and best friend since third grade, she knew me better than almost anyone.
I shook my head, surprising myself with the truth of it. “Not really. Just… ready.”
And I was. After thirty-two years of life and three years with Nathan, I felt certain in a way I’d never experienced before. Some might call it maturity, others fate—I preferred to think of it as recognition. In Nathan, I’d recognized the partner I wanted for life’s journey, and today would make that official.
“Well, you should be at least a little nervous,” Charlotte teased, setting down a tray of pastries she’d smuggled from the kitchen. “It’s tradition.”
I laughed, turning from the window. “When have I ever cared about tradition?”
This wasn’t entirely true, of course. While I prided myself on forging my own path—starting my own architectural firm instead of joining my father’s company, buying a fixer-upper in a transitional neighborhood rather than settling in the suburbs—there were some traditions I cherished. And a beautiful wedding, surrounded by loved ones in a historic venue with all the trimmings, was apparently one of them.
The next few hours dissolved into a flurry of activity: hair and makeup artists arriving, bridesmaids fluttering about in varying stages of readiness, my mother appearing with the “something borrowed” pearl earrings she’d worn at her own wedding thirty-five years ago. Through it all, I maintained a sense of calm that surprised everyone, especially my typically unflappable father.
“You know, Eliza,” he said as we stole a private moment before the ceremony, “I expected to be talking you down from ledges today.”
I adjusted his bow tie, smiling at the man who’d taught me everything from how to change a tire to how to calculate load-bearing capacity for a cantilevered deck. “Sorry to disappoint you, Dad. I’m saving the hysterics for our father-daughter dance.”
He chuckled, but his eyes grew misty. “Your mother and I couldn’t be prouder of the woman you’ve become. And Nathan… well, he’s a lucky man.”
“I’m the lucky one,” I replied, meaning it.
Meeting Nathan had been pure chance—or perhaps, as my more spiritually-inclined friends insisted, destiny. Three years ago, I’d been presenting a renovation proposal to the board of the city museum when the sprinkler system malfunctioned, drenching my meticulously prepared materials. As I stood there, watching months of work dissolve into soggy pulp, a tall man with kind eyes had appeared beside me, offering his jacket to protect what remained of my portfolio.
“Looks like your plans are taking on water,” he’d said with a sympathetic smile that somehow wasn’t patronizing. “I’m Nathan, by the way. Museum curator and apparently now, emergency response team.”
His humor in the midst of disaster had been so disarming that I’d found myself laughing instead of crying. We’d gone for coffee after the meeting was rescheduled, and by dessert, I’d known there was something special about him. Three years later, here we were, about to promise forever to each other.
Nathan was everything I wasn’t—spontaneous where I was methodical, relaxed where I was intense, artistic where I was technical. He balanced me, challenging my rigid planning without dismissing it, appreciating my attention to detail while gently reminding me to look at the bigger picture. We fit together like complementary pieces of a well-designed structure.
“It’s time,” Charlotte announced, appearing at the doorway of the bridal suite. She looked stunning in the sage green bridesmaid dress we’d chosen together, her dark skin glowing against the delicate fabric. “Everyone’s seated, and Nathan’s at the altar looking like he might pass out from happiness.”
My father offered his arm, and with a deep breath, I stepped into the hallway, my dress—an architectural marvel in its own right, with clean lines and subtle detailing—swishing softly around my ankles. The string quartet began playing Pachelbel’s Canon as we approached the garden where the ceremony would take place.
I paused at the entrance, taking in the scene. One hundred and fifty guests seated in white chairs on either side of a petal-strewn aisle. An arch of white roses and greenery standing against the backdrop of the estate’s manicured gardens. And Nathan, handsome in his charcoal suit, waiting for me with an expression of such open adoration that it nearly took my breath away.
This was it. The culmination of months of planning, years of growing together, a lifetime of becoming the person who could recognize and cherish what Nathan and I had built. I squeezed my father’s arm, signaling I was ready, and we began our walk.
The ceremony proceeded exactly as planned—the readings selected with care, the vows we’d written ourselves, the exchange of rings passed down through Nathan’s family for generations. As we were pronounced husband and wife, applause erupted from our gathered loved ones, and I felt a surge of joy so pure it was almost overwhelming.
“I love you, Mrs. Harrison,” Nathan whispered as we turned to face our guests, his new ring glinting in the afternoon sun.
“And I love you, Mr. Parker-Harrison,” I replied, having decided to hyphenate while Nathan would keep his name simple. Another perfect compromise in our balanced relationship.
We proceeded back down the aisle, hand in hand, to the joyful strains of Vivaldi. The reception would begin shortly in the estate’s grand ballroom—cocktail hour first, then dinner, speeches, dancing, and cake cutting, all meticulously scheduled in the timeline I’d created and distributed to our wedding party weeks ago.
As we reached the end of the aisle, ready to take a moment alone before rejoining our guests, a commotion at the garden entrance caught my attention. A group of people I didn’t recognize was approaching, carrying something large between them.
“Who is that?” I murmured to Nathan, feeling the first flutter of unease. This wasn’t part of the plan.
Nathan squinted, then his expression shifted from confusion to recognition, then to something I couldn’t quite read—alarm? Embarrassment?
“Oh no,” he said under his breath. “It’s the guys.”
“What guys?”
But before he could answer, I realized what was happening. The group—six men in suits that didn’t quite match our wedding’s formality—were carrying what appeared to be a coffin. An actual, full-sized coffin, draped in black fabric and topped with an enormous red bow, as if it were some macabre gift.
My mouth went dry. “Nathan, what the hell is this?”
Nathan ran a hand through his carefully styled hair, a nervous gesture I knew well. “My old college friends. They’re… Oh god, I’m so sorry, Eliza. I had no idea they were planning anything like this.”
By now, the coffin-bearers had reached us, and our guests were turning in their seats, murmurs of confusion rippling through the crowd. I recognized a few of the men now—Nathan’s former roommates and fraternity brothers, including his childhood best friend, Trevor, who grinned at us with the self-satisfied expression of someone who thinks he’s hilarious.
“Special delivery for the newlyweds!” Trevor announced, far too loudly. The other men lowered the coffin to the ground directly in front of us.
My carefully cultivated calm began to fracture. This was not on the timeline. This was not part of our elegant, meaningful ceremony. This was… what exactly?
“Trevor,” Nathan hissed, “what are you doing?”
“Relax, Nate,” Trevor replied, winking at me. “Just a little wedding tradition from the old days.”
The old days. I knew what that meant. Nathan’s college years had been filled with elaborate pranks and inside jokes among his friend group. He’d told me stories that ranged from mildly amusing to borderline concerning, always with the caveat that he’d “grown out of all that nonsense.” Apparently, his friends hadn’t received that memo.
“Open it!” someone called from the crowd—one of Nathan’s cousins, I thought, though I couldn’t be sure.
Trevor made a grand gesture of unlatching the coffin, building suspense like some demented game show host. My heart was pounding so hard I could feel it in my throat. What was in there? Nothing grotesque, surely—these were adults, professionals even, despite their current behavior. But my mind raced with possibilities, each more mortifying than the last.
With a flourish, Trevor flung open the coffin lid.
Inside, nestled on black satin, was an enormous blown-up photo of Nathan from his college days—shirtless, holding a beer bong, wearing a ridiculous hat shaped like a fish. Surrounding the photo were dozens of items: shot glasses, plastic leis, playing cards, ping pong balls, what appeared to be a stolen traffic cone, and various other paraphernalia of youthful indiscretion.
“Behold!” Trevor proclaimed. “The death and burial of Nathan the Bachelor! May he rest in peace!” The other men cheered and began throwing handfuls of glitter—glitter!—over the open coffin and, by proximity, over Nathan and me.
I stood frozen, feeling the tiny sparkly particles landing in my carefully arranged hair, on my pristine dress, across my immaculate makeup. Three months of planning, thousands of dollars, countless hours of preparation—all to create a perfect, meaningful day that would now forever be remembered as “that wedding where the groom’s friends brought a coffin.”
I turned to look at Nathan, expecting to see the same horror and embarrassment I was feeling. Instead, to my shock, he was laughing. Actually laughing, his shoulders shaking as he looked at the ridiculous display.
“You guys are unbelievable,” he said, shaking his head but still smiling. “I can’t believe you kept this from me.”
“That was the hard part,” Trevor admitted, clearly pleased with Nathan’s reaction. “We’ve been planning this for months.”
Months. The word echoed in my mind. While I’d been coordinating with florists and caterers, selecting linens and finalizing seating charts, these grown men had been plotting to hijack our wedding with a juvenile prank involving a funeral prop.
I felt a hand on my arm and turned to find Charlotte beside me, her expression a mixture of concern and indignation on my behalf.
“Want me to get security?” she whispered.
I took a deep breath, trying to center myself. This was a crossroads moment—I could react with the anger and outrage that was currently churning inside me, creating a scene that would only add to the spectacle, or I could find a way to incorporate this unexpected development into our day with grace.
I looked at Nathan again. He caught my eye, his laughter fading as he registered my expression. A flash of understanding passed between us—he realized, belatedly, how this might be affecting me. He moved to my side, taking my hand.
“Guys,” he said, his tone shifting from amusement to something more controlled, “this is… creative, but maybe save the rest for the reception? We have some photos to take now.”
Trevor looked disappointed but nodded. “Sure, man. We’ll just… park this somewhere until later.” He and the others began to close up the coffin.
“Wait,” I said, surprising myself. Everyone froze, looking at me with expressions ranging from wariness to curiosity.
I walked forward and peered into the coffin again, taking in the ridiculous memorial to Nathan’s bachelor days. Then, deliberately, I reached in and picked up the photo.
“This is definitely not going in our wedding album,” I said, looking directly at Trevor. A tense silence fell—then I smiled, breaking the tension. “But I might have it framed for our guest bathroom.”
For a moment, no one moved. Then Nathan burst out laughing, followed by Trevor, then the rest of the group, and finally, the wedding guests who could hear the exchange. I felt Nathan’s arm slide around my waist, pulling me close.
“Have I told you today that you’re extraordinary?” he whispered in my ear.
“Not in those exact words,” I replied, relaxing into his embrace.
The coffin bearers agreed to relocate their “gift” to the reception area, where it would be less obtrusive but still accessible for whatever additional shenanigans they had planned. As they carried it away, I turned to Nathan.
“Just so we’re clear—this doesn’t mean I’m okay with surprise coffins at our anniversary parties.”
He grinned, kissing me softly. “Crystal clear. And for what it’s worth, I really had no idea they were planning this.”
“I believe you,” I said, realizing it was true. Nathan wouldn’t have kept something like this from me, knowing how important the wedding details were to me. “But you might want to reconsider your choice in friends.”
“Too late,” he said, nodding toward Trevor, who was now directing the coffin relocation with exaggerated authority. “They’re your problem now too.”
I laughed despite myself. “I guess that’s what I signed up for, isn’t it? For better or worse, in sickness and health, in planned elegance and unexpected coffins.”
“Something like that,” Nathan agreed, leading me toward the area where our photographer was waiting. “Though I’m pretty sure those weren’t the exact vows we just exchanged.”
As we posed for photos—first formal, then increasingly silly as the wedding party joined us—I found myself reflecting on the day’s unexpected turn. Yes, the coffin prank had disrupted my carefully planned timeline. Yes, there was glitter in my hair that would probably show up in every photo. And yes, I would have preferred a heads-up about Trevor’s propensity for funeral-themed hijinks.
But there was also something refreshing about the disruption—a reminder that life, like love, rarely follows our carefully constructed plans. Nathan brought spontaneity and surprise into my organized world, challenging me to embrace the unexpected. Today was just another opportunity to practice that balance.
By the time we entered our reception, hand in hand to the cheers of our guests, the coffin had been transformed into an impromptu “advice and memories” station, where people were leaving notes and small tokens for our future together. It wasn’t what I had envisioned, but it was uniquely, perfectly us—a blend of my attention to detail and Nathan’s embracing of the unexpected.
“So,” Nathan asked as we prepared for our first dance, “still ready for this journey together?”
I looked around at our celebration—traditional in some ways, wildly unconventional in others—and felt a surge of certainty.
“More than ever,” I replied, stepping into his arms as the music began. “As long as you promise our life together will never be boring.”
He spun me gently, his eyes never leaving mine. “With you? Never. That’s one tradition I have no intention of starting.”
And as we danced, surrounded by the people we loved—the ones who followed the rules and the ones who brought coffins to weddings—I knew we’d found our perfect balance. Not in spite of the unexpected turns, but because of them.
The unplanned moments, I was beginning to understand, were often the ones that mattered most.
When we returned from our honeymoon two weeks later—a carefully researched tour of architectural wonders in Spain for me, interspersed with spontaneous detours to local festivals and hidden beaches for Nathan—we found a package waiting at our door. It was long and narrow, wrapped in elegant silver paper with a card attached.
“Should we be concerned?” I asked, eyeing the suspicious dimensions.
Nathan tore open the card, then laughed. “It’s from Trevor and the guys.”
Inside the package was a custom-made miniature coffin—an intricately crafted jewelry box, it turned out—containing two things: the ridiculous college photo of Nathan, now reduced to a size appropriate for a wallet, and a beautiful silver frame containing our favorite wedding photo. In it, Nathan and I were laughing, my head thrown back in genuine joy, his eyes crinkled with happiness, both of us covered in a light dusting of glitter that caught the light like tiny stars.
The note read simply: Here lies the old chapter. Long live the new one. Welcome to the family, Eliza.
I placed the frame on our mantel, a reminder that sometimes the best-laid plans are meant to be disrupted—and that love, in all its unpredictable glory, is worth every unexpected moment.
Even the ones that arrive in coffins.
One Year Later
“Please tell me there are no coffins involved in this,” I said, eyeing the suspicious grin on Trevor’s face as he helped Nathan carry in boxes for our one-year anniversary party.
“Scout’s honor,” Trevor replied, raising three fingers in what was definitely not the correct scout salute. “Besides, you can’t repeat a classic. That would be tasteless.”
Nathan shot me a reassuring smile over the stack of decorations in his arms. “I made him promise. No funeral-themed surprises this time.”
I wasn’t entirely convinced, but in the year since our wedding, I’d developed a grudging appreciation for Trevor’s particular brand of chaos. He’d become a regular fixture in our lives—Sunday dinners, holiday gatherings, impromptu game nights—and beneath his prankster exterior was a fiercely loyal friend who’d helped us move into our new home and showed up with soup when Nathan came down with the flu last winter.
“Fine,” I conceded, “but if anything remotely resembling a casket appears, I’m holding you personally responsible, Nathan Parker-Harrison.”
“Noted,” my husband replied, setting down the boxes and wrapping an arm around my waist. “But for what it’s worth, I think Trevor has evolved. He’s dating that pediatrician now, remember? She’s a good influence.”
The anniversary party was my concession to Nathan’s more social nature. I would have been content with a quiet dinner for two, but Nathan thrived on gathering our people together, creating moments of connection and celebration. So I’d agreed to a small gathering at our newly renovated home—thirty close friends and family members to mark our first year as a married couple.
To my surprise, I found myself enjoying the planning process. Unlike our wedding, which had felt weighed down by expectations and traditions, this celebration was purely ours to design. We chose a casual backyard barbecue theme, strung Edison bulbs across our newly built deck (my design, Nathan’s carpentry), and created a playlist that alternated between my classical favorites and Nathan’s indie rock discoveries.
“The cake just arrived,” Charlotte announced, poking her head out the back door. My maid of honor had recently announced her own engagement and had been picking my brain about wedding planning—taking copious notes about what to do and what to avoid (coffins featuring prominently on the latter list).
“Is it the same as our wedding cake?” Nathan asked, his eyes lighting up at the prospect. He’d fallen in love with the lemon-lavender creation at our tasting, and I’d secretly arranged for a miniature version to mark our anniversary.
“Come see for yourself,” I replied, taking his hand and leading him inside.
The kitchen was filled with activity—my mother arranging charcuterie boards, Nathan’s father manning the grill visible through the window, friends carrying drinks and laughing together. The cake stood on our island counter, a perfect replica of our wedding cake, down to the subtle architectural detailing I’d requested. But perched beside it was something unexpected—a tiny silver coffin, about the size of a shoebox, with “1st Anniversary” written on it in elegant script.
I froze, immediately looking for Trevor, but he was nowhere to be seen.
“Nathan,” I began, my tone warning.
But Nathan looked equally surprised. “I swear I had nothing to do with this.”
We approached the miniature coffin cautiously. Unlike its wedding predecessor, this one was beautifully crafted, with intricate metalwork and what appeared to be mother-of-pearl inlay. A small card was propped against it.
Nathan picked up the card, reading aloud: “Some traditions are worth keeping. Open in private. With love, your friends.”
“If there’s a bachelor photo in there, I’m filing for divorce,” I muttered, though without any real heat.
“Should we open it now?” Nathan asked, looking around at our gathering guests.
I considered for a moment, then nodded. “Let’s take it to the study.”
Once in the privacy of our book-lined study—my architectural texts sharing shelf space with Nathan’s art history volumes—we placed the miniature coffin on the desk and exchanged a look.
“Together?” Nathan suggested.
“Together,” I agreed.
We lifted the lid to find, not embarrassing memorabilia or juvenile jokes, but a collection of small scrolls tied with ribbon. Each was labeled with a month of our first year—”May,” “June,” “July,” and so on. Confused, we unrolled the first one.
Inside, in Trevor’s surprisingly neat handwriting, was a memory: “May 12th: Nathan calls me in a panic because he can’t figure out how to use the fancy coffee machine Eliza loves. Says making her perfect morning coffee is ‘the most important responsibility of married life.’ Gets up at 5 am for a week practicing before she notices.”
I turned to Nathan, eyebrows raised. “You never told me that.”
He shrugged, looking slightly embarrassed. “You were so excited about that coffee machine. I didn’t want to disappoint you.”
We unrolled another scroll, this one in Charlotte’s handwriting: “August 3rd: Eliza calls for advice on building Nathan a darkroom in their basement. Spends three weeks researching specifications and ventilation requirements. Says, ‘I want to give him a space that’s just his, where he can create without compromise.’”
One by one, we opened the scrolls, finding moments from our first year together recorded by our friends and family—some we’d shared with them, others they’d observed without our knowledge. Arguments and reconciliations. Achievements and disappointments. Small kindnesses and grand gestures.
“October 17th: Nathan and Eliza show up at the hospital when my son is born,” read a note from Nathan’s colleague. “They bring food, walk my dog, and clean my apartment. Eliza organizes a meal train that lasts for six weeks.”
“December 24th: Eliza falls asleep during the holiday movie marathon. Nathan covers her with a blanket, then sits on the floor beside her, holding her hand while she sleeps, not wanting to wake her by moving.”
“February 9th: Big snowstorm. Power out. Find them building a blanket fort in their living room, reading poetry by flashlight and drinking wine straight from the bottle.”
The last scroll was different—larger and tied with gold ribbon instead of silver. It contained not a memory but a message, written and signed by everyone at our party:
“Marriage isn’t just about the big moments—the wedding day, the anniversaries, the milestone celebrations. It’s about the small moments in between, the daily choices to love, support, and cherish each other. We’ve been honored to witness your first year of these moments, and we look forward to celebrating many more with you both. The coffin tradition continues—not to mark the death of your bachelor days, but to preserve and honor the life you’re building together.”
At the bottom was a note from Trevor: “P.S. I commissioned a local artisan to make this box. She’s agreed to create a new one each year, so you can continue collecting your moments. Consider it my wedding gift… one year late.”
I looked at Nathan, feeling a swell of emotion I hadn’t expected. “I take back everything I ever said about your ridiculous friends.”
“Even the part about reconsidering my choice in friends?” he asked, eyes twinkling.
“Especially that part.” I ran my fingers over the beautiful craftsmanship of the tiny coffin—no longer a symbol of juvenile pranks but a treasure box of our shared life. “This is… perfect.”
Nathan wrapped his arms around me, pulling me close. “Just think—in ten years, we’ll have ten of these, filled with hundreds of moments.”
“In fifty years, we’ll need a separate room to store them all,” I added, imagining our future home, our older selves, surrounded by decades of preserved memories.
“Worth it,” Nathan declared, kissing me softly.
When we returned to the party, coffin in hand, Trevor was watching us anxiously from across the room. I walked directly to him, aware of the curious eyes following me, wondering perhaps if I was about to make a scene.
Instead, I hugged him—maybe for the first time ever—and whispered, “Thank you for paying attention to what matters.”
Trevor, for once, seemed at a loss for words. He simply nodded, a genuine smile replacing his usual mischievous grin.
Later, as twilight descended and our guests gathered on the deck sharing stories and laughter, Nathan found me leaning against the railing, watching the scene with contentment.
“Happy anniversary, Mrs. Harrison,” he said, echoing his words from a year ago.
“Happy anniversary, Mr. Parker-Harrison,” I replied, leaning into him. “Did you ever imagine, when Trevor and his friends showed up with that coffin at our wedding, that it would turn into something like this?”
Nathan looked thoughtful. “I wouldn’t have predicted it, but it makes a strange kind of sense. That’s what we do, isn’t it? Take the unexpected moments and transform them into something meaningful.”
I thought about the year we’d shared—the carefully planned elements that had gone exactly as expected, and the surprises that had taken us in unexpected directions. The promotion Nathan had received that we’d celebrated with spontaneous tickets to a concert. The design competition I’d lost that had led to a soul-searching weekend away and ultimately a more authentic approach to my work. The pipe that had burst in our bathroom, flooding the house but creating an opportunity to renovate the space together, combining my technical skills with Nathan’s artistic vision.
“That’s exactly what we do,” I agreed, watching as Trevor now entertained a group with what appeared to be an elaborate story, complete with dramatic gestures. “Take chaos and create harmony.”
“Speaking of chaos,” Nathan said, his tone shifting to something more tentative, “there’s something I’ve been wanting to talk to you about.”
I turned to face him fully, recognizing the expression he wore when he was nervous but excited. “What is it?”
He took a deep breath. “What would you think about creating a different kind of project together? One that might take, oh, about nine months to complete initially, but would actually be a lifetime commitment?”
It took me a moment to understand what he was suggesting. When I did, I felt a rush of emotions—excitement, fear, overwhelming love.
“Are you asking if I want to have a baby?” I clarified, my heart racing.
Nathan nodded. “I know we said we’d wait two years, but lately I’ve been thinking… sometimes the timeline isn’t as important as being ready. And I feel ready, Eliza. Ready to build this next chapter with you.”
I thought about our home, our careers, our relationship. The architectural projects that kept me working late, the museum exhibitions that took Nathan away for days at a time. The peaceful mornings and quiet evenings that would be transformed by the arrival of a child.
But I also thought about the tiny coffin filled with memories, the promised additions for future years, and the possibility of sharing those stories someday with a little person who had Nathan’s kind eyes or my determined chin.
“I feel ready too,” I admitted, surprising myself with the certainty I felt. “Not prepared—I don’t think anyone’s ever fully prepared—but ready. Ready to face whatever comes next, together.”
Nathan’s face lit up with joy. “Really? You’re sure?”
“I’m sure,” I confirmed, laughing as he picked me up and spun me around, drawing curious glances from our guests. “But let’s agree right now—no coffin-themed baby announcements.”
“Deal,” Nathan agreed, setting me down gently. “Although I can’t speak for Trevor once he finds out he’s going to be an honorary uncle.”
I groaned, already imagining the possibilities. “We’re going to need to establish some clear boundaries.”
“We will,” Nathan assured me, his expression growing serious for a moment. “But I also think we need to leave room for surprise, for the unexpected moments that might seem chaotic at first but become our favorite stories.”
As if on cue, Trevor approached, carrying a bottle of champagne and a mischievous smile. “You two look suspiciously happy over here. Any announcements you’d like to make?”
“Not yet,” I replied, exchanging a private smile with Nathan. “But stay tuned. The next chapter might be even more interesting than the last.”
Trevor raised his eyebrows, clearly intrigued. “Can’t wait. And just so you know, I’ve already got ideas for next year’s anniversary coffin. I’m thinking maybe something with moving parts…”
As Trevor launched into an increasingly elaborate description of his plans, Nathan squeezed my hand, a silent communication of shared amusement and affection. I squeezed back, grateful for this life we were building together—a perfect balance of careful planning and unexpected joy, of structure and spontaneity, of traditions both conventional and uniquely our own.
Like the coffin now displayed proudly on our mantel, our marriage was becoming a repository of moments—some planned, others surprising, all precious in their own way. And I couldn’t wait to see what would fill the next one, and the next, and all the ones that would follow in the years to come.
