To the Samuels —
You got married inside your own house, and somehow the whole house seemed to know.
The hardwood floors. The white curtains. The floral arch tucked under the staircase like it had always been there. The blue sneakers under his pants, which was the moment I knew exactly the kind of wedding this was going to be.
There is a kind of intimacy a hotel ballroom can't fake. You can't rent it. You can't dress for it. It only happens in the room that already knows you both — the one that has watched you make breakfast, watched you argue, watched you fall asleep on the couch. The room where you signed for packages and forgot anniversaries and apologized in the dark.
That room said the vows with you. I just happened to be there to make pictures.
— Stephanie
