Wedding Speech When a Parent Has Died: What to Say

Example 1: Best man, the groom's father has died (about three minutes)

Good evening. I'm Tomas, the best man. Will and I have been friends since we were eleven, and I have eaten a lot of dinners at his parents' table, so I want to start there.

Will's dad, Gordon, should be here tonight. He died three years ago. I'll say one thing about him. Gordon asked every one of Will's friends the same question at that table. Not what are you doing. What are you reading. If you said nothing, he handed you something off the shelf. I was handed four books over the years. I still have three.

That was the house Will grew up in. You left with more than you came with.

Here's the Will I want you to know. When our friend Danny lost his job, Will did not say "let me know if you need anything." He showed up on a Saturday with a laptop, and the two of them rewrote Danny's résumé at the kitchen table until dark. Danny got the next job he applied for. Will never mentioned it to anyone.

That's him. He hands you something you did not know you needed, and then he does not bring it up.

Then he met Anika, and for the first time I watched someone do that for him. Anika, the first time I saw you together was at that same table. You had noticed the shelf. You asked him what he was reading. You had no way of knowing what that question meant in that house. He had to leave the room for a minute, and then he came back and answered you.

You have made him lighter. He laughs earlier in the story now.

So please, everyone, stand and raise your glasses. To Will and Anika. May your house always send people home with more than they came with.

Why it works: the mention comes right after the opening with one exact detail, then the speech belongs to the groom. The partner section echoes the detail without returning to the loss.

Example 2: Maid of honor, the bride's mother died this year (about three minutes)

Hi, everyone. I'm Leah, the maid of honor. Chloe and I met at fourteen on the same relay team, where we discovered within a week that we both hated running.

Chloe's mom, Diane, died in March. I am not going to try to say everything about her, because Chloe asked me not to, and because Diane would have hated a fuss. I'll say this. Every time Chloe and I did something stupid as teenagers, Diane found out, and every single time she made us a sandwich before she yelled at us. Sandwich first. That was the rule in that house.

Chloe got that from her. She will tell you the truth about anything. She will just feed you first.

When I did not get into the graduate program I had planned my whole life around, Chloe was at my door in forty minutes with soup. She watched me eat it. Then she said, "You didn't want that program. You wanted to have gotten in." She was right. I changed careers that year, and it is the best thing I have done, and it started with soup and one true sentence.

That is Chloe. She sees the real thing and she says it, and she makes sure you are fed first.

Ines, the first time Chloe brought you to brunch, you told her the place she had picked was overrated. To her face. Before the food came. I waited for the end of the world, and instead she laughed and ordered for both of you, and I understood she had finally met someone who would tell her the truth, too. You have also eaten everything she has ever put in front of you, which, trust me, is the way in.

Please stand with me and raise your glasses. To Chloe and Ines. Truth always. Sandwich first.

Why it works: the loss is recent, so the mention is short and plain. One small habit of the mother's becomes the bride's own quality, and the toast calls back to the habit, not the loss.

Example 3: Mother of the groom, speaking alone after her husband's death (about three and a half minutes)

Good evening. I'm Ellen, Joel's mother. Frank and I were going to do this together. We had the running order written on the back of an envelope, and his half was going to be the funny half, so you will have to make allowances.

Frank died last spring. He belongs in this room, and I will come back to him at the end, briefly, because he would already be looking at his watch.

I want to tell you one thing about Joel, and it starts in the parking lot behind St. Anne's, where his father taught him to drive stick. Joel stalled that car about two hundred times that summer. And every single time, Frank said the same two words. "Fine. Again." I think it is the most useful thing anyone has ever said to him.

Here is what Joel does now. Two years ago, the first apartment he and Simone rented flooded the week they moved in. I drove over and found the two of them on the floor with a hair dryer and a shoebox of photographs, drying them one at a time. Simone was sorting by year. Joel was doing the drying. They had lost most of the furniture, and they were, and I am choosing the word carefully, happy. Fine. Again.

Simone. You have never once treated our family like something to be managed. You walk into my house, you put the kettle on, you ask Joel's grandmother about her hip. He chose very well, and he would tell you the choosing was mostly yours.

Before the toast, I am going to ask you to do one thing with me. Pick up your glass. To Frank.

Thank you.

Now, please stand, and raise them again. To Joel and Simone. Whatever comes: fine. Again.

Why it works: a surviving parent gets a little more room. The husband is named in the open, appears inside the memory as a character rather than the subject, and gets one short separate toast. The last line stays the couple's.

Example 4: Groom's thank-you speech, his own mother has died (about three minutes)

On behalf of my wife, and I am going to keep saying that until it stops being fun, thank you all for being here. Some of you drove with small children. We know.

Mei's parents, Hui and Wen. Thank you for raising her, for every Sunday dinner, and for pretending my dumplings are getting better. They are not. I will keep trying.

My dad, who did the last ten years on his own and never once let me feel it. Thank you.

My mom, Teresa, is not here, and I want to say one thing about her. She kept a list on the fridge of everyone she wanted me to invite to things, and for years I ignored it. I did not ignore it this time. About half of you are on that list. So thank you for coming, from both of us.

To the wedding party: you have been tailored, rehearsed, and photographed for two days, and you complained less than I would have. Thank you.

And Mei. You had a plan for today, and you let me have exactly one opinion, which was the cake, and you were right not to give me a second one. Here is what I want you to know, in front of everyone. You get up before me every day and have never mentioned it. You read the last page of a book first, which I have come to understand is because you cannot stand not knowing how a thing turns out.

So let me save you the trouble. It turns out fine. It turns out better than fine. I am going to spend the rest of my life making sure of it, and I already know I will be the lucky one in that deal.

Please raise your glasses. To my wife. To Mei.

Why it works: the mention sits inside the thank-yous, where parents are already being named. The detail turns the guests themselves into the tribute, so the room feels something without being told to.