James came to Sunday lunch, and before he'd even sat down, he offered to do the washing up. I decided there and then. You can learn a lot about a person from how quickly they reach for the marigolds, and James reached fast.
I should say, Sarah has never made anything easy for the people who love her. Between the ages of three and six, she would not wear anything but wellingtons. Not sandals, not shoes, not even for a wedding, which I remember thinking at the time was a bold statement from someone who had not yet mastered a fork. I don't know whose wedding it was. I do know there are photographs, and I know the wellingtons are in every one of them.
That stubbornness never left her, it just got quieter. When she moved to Manchester, she rang her father every Sunday at six. Not most Sundays. Every Sunday, for eleven years. I used to hear the phone go and know exactly what time it was without looking at a clock. That's not romance, that's just Sarah, deciding on a thing and doing it, over and over, until it becomes who she is. I think James is getting the benefit of that now, and I don't imagine he'll ever have to wonder where he stands.
I made every table decoration in this room by hand. Every single one. Sarah told me not to. She told me not to, I would estimate, around forty times. I ignored her forty times, because that is also a thing mothers decide on and do, over and over, whether asked to or not. So if you're sitting near one tonight and it's slightly wonky, that's love, that is. Handmade, unasked for, and completely non-negotiable.
I'll tell you the moment I really understood what we were getting with James, though, and it isn't the washing up. It's the boiler. It broke on Boxing Day, of all days, and James fixed it. Nobody rang him. Nobody asked. He just turned up and fixed it, and when we tried to pay him, he wouldn't take a penny. There is something about a man who mends your heating on Boxing Day and refuses payment that tells you everything you need to know, and it isn't written down anywhere, it's just there, in the fact of it.
So that's what I've got. A daughter who wore wellingtons to a wedding, who rang her dad every Sunday for eleven years without fail, who told me forty times to stop making decorations and lost every single time. And a son-in-law who does the washing up before he's introduced himself, and fixes boilers on days when he's supposed to be doing anything else.
I think they'll do rather well together, those two. One of them commits to a thing and never lets go, and the other one just quietly turns up and sorts it out. I don't know what you'd call that. I'd call it a good marriage, actually, before it's even started.
Would everyone please raise a glass to Sarah and James.