I’ve lived in my house for 12 years. Last week, a woman named Lana knocked on my door and asked if she could have her wedding in my backyard. She said it had been her late mother’s dying wish. I said no. She cried quietly and left.
I didn’t know then that Lana had been born in this house. Her mom had died six months earlier from cancer, and in her final days she talked about this yard—the cherry tree where she read as a child, danced with her husband, and dreamed of her daughter’s future.
When I declined, I thought it was just another sentimental request. The yard felt ordinary to me: a fence, a small garden, and an old cherry tree I liked for its shade.
The next day, I saw an online post about a woman turned away while trying to honor her mother’s last wish. The details were unmistakable. That night, I couldn’t sleep. I kept staring at the cherry tree and remembered a faded heart carved into its bark: “L + M.”
The next morning, I called Lana and told her we could talk.
We planned a small wedding. Quiet. Simple. On the day of the ceremony, the backyard felt different—alive. During her vows, Lana looked at the tree and said, “Now I’m home.”
Later, a letter arrived from her aunt, thanking me for giving her sister peace.
Since then, I’ve built a bench by the tree and started calling it the Memory Tree.
I learned something important: sometimes what feels like your space is sacred ground to someone else. And opening the door—even once—can change far more than you expect.
