The Space That Made It Personal
Before a single guest arrived, before anyone said a word, the backyard said everything. White folding chairs arranged on lush green grass. Potted flowers — orange, red, white — tucked along the aisle in a way that felt less like a florist's plan and more like a garden that had decided, on its own, to dress up for the occasion. A dark wood ceremony arch draped in flowing white fabric anchored it all against a canopy of tall summer trees.
The Ceremony
From the moment Kerry walked out, she was laughing. Not the nervous kind — the kind that comes from someone who is completely, utterly sure. He wasn't far behind.
There's a particular kind of ease that comes with a second wedding. Both of them had lived enough life to know that love isn't about a perfect moment — it's about choosing the right person. Watching them at that altar, it was clear they had.
And then there was the ring exchange — her youngest son standing right beside them with the ring pillow, the weight of the moment clearly not lost on him at all.
The Walk Back Down
If I had to pick one moment that captures what this wedding felt like, it would be the recessional. Kerry walked back down that aisle like someone who had just been given the best news of her life — which, of course, she had. Bouquet raised. Full laugh. Him right beside her, grinning like he couldn't quite believe his luck either.
Then came the rose petals. Nobody warned her quite enough, and the resulting photo is one of my favorites from the whole day — pure, delightful chaos.
After the Ceremony
After the ceremony, we slipped away for portraits. The back porch of the house — stone facade, summer flowers in clay pots, French doors open behind them — was quietly stunning without trying to be. They sat together, foreheads touching, the whole world temporarily narrowed down to just the two of them.
And then — the dancing. Right there on the lawn before the reception even started, he twirled her. She spun her skirt out wide and laughed. I kept shooting.
