A Toast

for my Abby - and now, my Anni

Michelle Francois-Walsh

Jun 10, 2026

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About a year ago, my daughter asked Tom and me to prepare a toast for her upcoming wedding.

Her instructions were simple: “No more than about 5 minutes combined - people don’t want to sit there all night and listen to speeches! They want to party.”

The kid’s not wrong.

Tom, being a firstborn, worked on his speech as if his life depended on it. He does not take shit like this lightly. Over many months, he wrote, edited, and whittled it down until he felt it was perfect.

I, on the other hand, wasn’t even sure I would be able to speak. So I waited. Some may call this procrastination. One week before the wedding, I wrote my toast to our daughter in 10 minutes flat.

That’s how the last-borns roll. We don’t rush. We bring snacks. We read the room. We will deliver, but it will be when we “feel” it.

So here’s my toast - to my absolutely stunning girl. And her awesome fucking wife. I am still processing what just happened. But I want to share this small snippet of JOY with you.

Just cut me out of all of the aisle pictures, please.

My Abby. My first. My baby.

When Daddy and I brought you home from the hospital, we couldn’t help but notice that your little head tilted just a bit to one side.

Seems that sister had been resting comfortably on you during the entire ten-month in utero experience.

This, of course, earned you the nickname “Old Crooked Head” - trademarked by Papa.

And, if I am being completely honest, as a first-time, sleep-deprived mom of twins, your tilted noggin made it a bit easier to distinguish who was who - Abby (head tilt), Bella (head straight).

In an effort to help hold your head up and strengthen your neck muscles, we went to Occupational Therapy. During our weekly visits, you were handed to a kind stranger, who would stretch your tiny head this way and that.

Each time, you would scream and holler in protest while Bella looked on from my lap - a bit concerned, but mainly, unbothered.

Before we knew it, you grew strong, baby, and you developed the muscles that held your head high.

To our chagrin, we actually had to pay attention to who was who - unless you count that one time when Daddy gave the wrong baby medicine for an ear infection that the other baby actually had. But we’ll save that story for another time.

You grow where you’re planted, Abby. That’s you. It always has been.

Recently, when I dished the Crooked Head story to Annika, she sat listening, mouth wide open, until finally she said, “WHAT?!” Like my future wife had a crooked head that I knew nothing about.

This, of course, led to the spaghetti-faced picture- and me saying, “Wait, you haven’t seen it?” and Anni saying, “No!” And me pulling it out lickety split, to prove it - because Moms are helpers.

And THIS is the joy of marriage. Sharing your baby with someone who loves them just as much as you do.

My Abby, my first, my baby. My friend. My daughter turned into a sister I never had.

And now my Annika, my bonus daughter who has danced on countertops with me, and held my hand when I needed it most.

These women.

Their unwavering attention and care for each other.

This love.

Forever and ever, my babies.

Raise your glass -

To Abby and Annika