At her picture-perfect wedding, my Aunt Caroline humiliated Grandma for gifting her a handmade bouquet and a family heirloom ring. The room went silent, but my blood boiled. She wanted a show? Fine. I gave her one she’ll never forget!

While Mom worked double shifts at the hospital when I was a kid, Grandma was the one who raised me. She taught me that life’s real treasures were the pies cooling on windowsills, the Halloween costumes she’d sew by hand when store-bought was too expensive, and the handwritten thank-you notes she insisted on sending for every gift. “A thank-you note tells someone they matter,” she’d say, addressing envelopes in perfect cursive. “Remember that, sweetheart.”

And then she’d let me lick the stamp.

Then there was Aunt Caroline, Grandma’s youngest daughter, and my mother’s sister. If Grandma was warm honey, Caroline was cold steel. Everything in her life had to be Instagram-perfect: her house, her clothes, and her husband-to-be, who worked in finance. The apple didn’t just fall far from the tree with Caroline — it rolled off the farm and down the highway. So, it was no surprise that she planned her wedding as though it were the social event of the season.

For three quiet weeks before Caroline’s wedding, I watched Grandma work on a special gift for her. She cut a small section of lace from her own wedding dress, and then she pulled out a tiny velvet box from her dresser drawer. “This ring,” she told me, her voice soft with memory, “was my grandmother’s. She gave it to me when I married your grandfather.” The silver band was delicate, with tiny flowers etched into the metal. It wasn’t flashy, but it carried history in every scratch. I watched as she polished it with a cloth, her eyes misty with memories.

“He was so handsome on our wedding day,” she murmured, more to herself than to me. “Not rich, mind you, but kind. Always kind.” On the morning of the wedding, Grandma went out into her garden and selected the best blooms from her rose garden. Her hands trembled as she wrapped the lace around the bouquet and threaded the ring into the bow she tied to secure it. “I hope she likes it,” she whispered, looking down at her creation. Her voice carried all the hope and fear only a mother could feel.

“She’ll love it,” I lied, because I knew better. I knew exactly how Caroline would react. But I couldn’t bring myself to break Grandma’s heart before Caroline inevitably would. Instead, I helped her into her dress and pinned her silver hair into a neat bun. The wedding was exactly what you’d expect from Caroline: a black-tie affair at a vineyard with drones filming overhead and guests in designer outfits sipping champagne that cost more than my monthly rent. After the ceremony, during the reception, I watched Grandma rise from our table and approach Caroline. She smoothed her dress and walked with purpos, clutching her handmade gift.