Amy looked down to the seamstress who knelt at her feet, pinning up the hem of her wedding dress. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Cholmley,” she said with a sniffle. A tear escaped and splashed on the older woman’s hand. Mrs. Cholmley glanced up, concern in her kind hazel eyes. “Reminds you of your poor mama, don’t it? The children playing outside, I mean?” Amy nodded, blinking back more tears.
