A Toast to Emily and Tom

A father-of-the-bride speech — about 3.5 minutes

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For those who don't know me, I'm David, Emily's dad. I'm an accountant. Which means I'm very good at spreadsheets and very bad at… this.

I've been working on this speech for a month. I've started it fourteen times. I know it's fourteen because I made a spreadsheet to track my drafts. My wife told me that's exactly why Emily asked Tom to handle the wedding budget.

Speaking of Tom — I have to get this out of the way. They met in a chemistry lab. They have chemistry. I've made this joke nine times now and Emily has groaned every single time. But I'm her father, and terrible jokes are my birthright. Tom, you're inheriting that now. No refunds.

(pause)

Here's what I actually want to say.

When Emily was five, she found a bird with a broken wing in our backyard. She brought it inside in a shoebox, made it a bed out of cotton balls, and named it Captain. She nursed that bird for two weeks. Fed it with an eyedropper. Sang to it. And when it finally got strong enough to fly away, she stood in the yard and cried.

I said, "Sweetheart, why are you crying? Captain's better now. This is a good thing."

She looked up at me and said, "I know, Daddy. I'm happy and sad at the same time."

She was five. I was thirty-two. And she understood something I'm only just getting now.

(pause)

There's something I never told Emily.

When she was in elementary school, I used to put a little note in her lunchbox every morning. Nothing fancy — "You're going to do great on your spelling test." "Don't forget you're awesome." "Dad's proud of you." Just a few words on a Post-it, folded in half.

I stopped after fifth grade because I figured she was too cool for her dad's little notes.

Last Thanksgiving, Emily was home and I walked past her old room. The door was open. She was sitting on the floor with a shoebox — not Captain's shoebox, a different one. I looked over her shoulder.

She'd kept every single note.

Every one. Hundreds of them. Wrinkled and faded and still folded in half.

So when I tell you I'm not a words person — I don't know. Maybe I've been a words person all along. I just write them small.

(pause)

Emily — I don't have a lunchbox to put this in, so I'll say it out here.

You have always known how to love fully. Bravely. Even when it means standing in the yard, crying, because something beautiful flew away. That is not weakness. That is the best thing about you.

Tom — she kept my notes. That means when she loves you, she keeps it forever. Take care of that.

And Emily — right now, your dad is happy and sad at the same time.

Please raise your glasses. To Emily and Tom.