The wedding speech they’ll actually remember

Eleven years ago, Priya wrote down everything she wanted in a man, read the list to me over the phone twice, and asked me to keep a copy in case she lost hers.

Tom, I brought it.

I'm Jess, Priya's best friend since we were fourteen, and I can tell you she has a list for everything: packing lists, grocery lists, a list of people she has forgiven and a much shorter one of people she hasn't.

Number one: kind to waiters. Number two: reads the instructions before building furniture. Number three: will drive me to the airport at four in the morning without making it a thing. Number four: "Must like Jess, or at least pretend convincingly."

Tom, you've done all four. I've seen the furniture, and I've decided to believe the last one.

There's one thing that isn't on the list, because she didn't know to write it down. Two years ago Priya's dad spent a month in the hospital, and she held it together for everyone, like she always does. Every night that month, Tom drove forty minutes to sit with her in the hospital parking lot, because she didn't want to go in and she didn't want to go home. He didn't try to fix anything. He brought soup and he sat there.

Priya, you've looked after all of us for as long as I've known you. It's good to see someone looking after you.

Please raise your glasses to Priya and Tom, and to everything that never made it onto the list.

When Chris was eleven, he told me with total confidence that you could see the Great Wall of China from space. I'm Sam, I've been his best friend ever since, and twenty years later he's still often wrong and never once in doubt.

Chris doesn't use GPS. He trusts a feeling, and the feeling once booked four of us on a flight to Portland for a bachelor party. The party was in Oregon. We landed in Maine.

He had the same feeling about the beard in 2014, and about buying a boat with three buddies who had never sailed either. The boat sank. Not dramatically. It filled up slowly at a marina on Lake Erie while the four of us argued about whose turn it was to bail.

So when he told us he was going to marry a woman he'd met in line at a bakery, after one conversation about sourdough, we were worried.

That one, he got right.

Hannah, you should know what you're getting. He will never ask for directions, and he will always insist the restaurant was here last time. You're also getting the most loyal person I know. When my dad died, Chris was on my doorstep before I'd finished telling people. He didn't know what to say, so he cleaned my kitchen, every surface, and stayed three days. I've never seen him that quiet, and I've never been so glad to see anyone.

Chris, you've been wrong about a lot of things. You weren't wrong about her.

Hannah, keep the car keys.

Everyone, please stand and raise your glasses to Hannah and Chris.

Good evening, everyone. I'm David, Lucy's dad. Anne and I want to thank you all for being here, and Marcus's family, thank you for making us feel like we've known you for years.

When Lucy was six, I taught her to ride a bike. I ran behind her down Elm Street holding the back of the seat and telling her I had her, for most of a summer. One evening I let go and she didn't notice. She reached the end of the road, turned around to say something, and saw me forty yards behind.

She wasn't frightened. She was furious. "You said you had me."

I did have her. I just didn't need to hold on anymore.

She's been a few yards ahead of me ever since. She could read before we got around to teaching her. At twenty-three she moved to Chicago for a job and called every Sunday to say everything was fine, whether it was or not.

Three years ago the Sunday calls started to include someone called Marcus. First he was a name in passing, then he was in the plans, and then it was "we."

Marcus, the first time you came to our house you did the dishes without being asked. You asked about my garden and listened to the answer, which nobody does. Anne made up her mind that night. I took longer, because that's my job. But I've watched you with her. You don't hold the back of her seat. You ride next to her, which is the only way anyone has ever kept up with Lucy.

Lucy, your mom and I are so proud of you. You're braver than I ever was and stubborn in all the right places, and you've chosen someone who deserves you.

I'm not letting go today, by the way. I'm just a little further back.

Please stand and raise your glasses to Lucy and Marcus.