Dear Jenna,
I have finally reached the point in my prognosis where I accept that there are certain things I will not live to see. I will not see the day your father retires from the law firm (he always promised me he would retire on his 65th birthday, safe to say that promise was only made to appease me); I will not live to see my grandchildren ride roller coasters, get pimples, or go on dates--and I will not live to see you get married.
This last item pains me the most. As I write this, you are a senior in college and you have just broken up with Jason... So it won't be Jason you end up with--dishy though he was (sorry, true)--but there will be someone, someday, who will light you up. You will get married, and you have said that you would like a big traditional wedding with all the bells and whistles...
That's where this notebook comes in. I won't be here to encourage or guide you when the time comes; I will, sweet Jenna, probably never meet the man you're going to marry...
... I will in these [notebook] pages, endeavor to bestow my best advice for your big day. You can follow it or ignore it, but at least you will know where I stand on each and every matter.
Elin Hildebrand
Sometimes I need a fast, fun read. This fit the bill. A privileged family, for sure, but a family that's known its share of heartbreak, of loss.
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