My Samoan wedding gift to him.
It’s not large. Not ornate. But every strand carries hours of work. Thought. Intention.
“I made something for you. For us.”
His brow lifts, but he says nothing—just watches me with quiet curiosity as I kneel and unfold it. The fine mat stretches open between us, the light catching its woven symmetry.
Alex sinks to his knees beside me. He doesn’t reach for me right away. Instead, he runs his hand along the edge of the mat, his fingers brushing each ridge, each woven line a story he’s reading with his palms.
“Magnolia––” His eyes stay on the mat, as if looking at me might break whatever’s holding him together. “You made this?”
I nod. “It’s my first completed one.”
Still, he doesn’t look up. His fingers press flat, like he’s trying to feel everything I poured into it—every fold made during stolen moments, every lesson passed from mother-in-law to daughter. Every piece of me.
“It’s not perfect,” I whisper. “I still have a lot to learn, and I need practice.”
He lifts his gaze and looks at me—eyes shining, lashes wet. And I see it all––the weight of his love, the depth of his pride, a respect that doesn’t need to be spoken aloud to be understood.
“It’s perfect,” he says, voice raw. “Because it came from you. Because you chose this. Chose us. This is more than a gift, Magnolia. This is a promise I’ll never forget.”
He pulls me into his arms and presses his lips to the crown of my head.
Together, we carry it to the head of the long table, where platters are being set down and laughter spills into the salt-thick air. We smooth it out there—deliberate, proud—at the place where tradition gathers, where stories live.
Where legacy begins.
The feast unfolds. Woven mats surround the tables, and every inch is covered with platters of traditional dishes: palusami wrapped in banana leaves, taro roasted to perfection, suckling pig with skin crackling under firelight, and bowls of oka fresh from the sea. The smell alone is a blessing.
I sit beside Alex, his hand still laced with mine. His other arm rests along the back of my shoulders, fingers brushing my upper arm. We’re barefoot and blissed-out, wrapped in the warmth of family and flame, music and meaning.
The breeze rolls in from the sea, carrying hints of salt and coconut smoke, fluttering the edge of my lavalava.
Everywhere, there’s motion. Singing breaks out mid-meal—unplanned, unrehearsed, but perfectly in tune. It rises from the mouths of elders and cousins, lilting and full, harmonizing with the rustle of leaves overhead and the murmur of waves beyond.
Violet twirls into view, cheeks pink from the coconut wine, her laughter tumbling out. She’s dancing with Elias under the string lights, moving without grace but full of joy. Every time he spins her, she laughs louder.
Alex’s thumb brushes mine. I glance up and catch his expression. It’s not playful or proud. It’s something quieter, deeper.
“You okay?” I whisper.
His answer is immediate. “I’ve never been better.”
I lean into him, resting my temple against his jaw, and he tilts his head to press a kiss into my hair.
Night falls slower here, different from the city where it drops all at once like a curtain. Here, it fades and melts into the horizon in streaks of tangerine and lavender.
By the time the plates are mostly empty and the fire has settled into a soft glow, I’ve curled closer. My legs are draped over Alex’s lap with my head tucked beneath his chin. One of his hands rests over my heart.
I close my eyes for a moment and let myself absorb everything––the press of his thumb against my chest, the last hint of gardenia clinging to my hair, the echo of laughter around the table, the low hum of a language I can’t translate but already love.
I slide my hand over his on my chest. “Thank you,” I whisper.
He doesn’t ask why. He just kisses my temple again, and the only sound between us is the sea. Alex’s hand curls around mine, his thumb brushing my wrist as the last of the feast winds down.
He leans in and presses a soft kiss just behind my ear. “I have something for you.”
I turn toward him, surprised. “You do?”
