Sunday Brunch at Midwood Estate

There are places where time folds in on itself. Midwood is one of them.

We began here Friday, under a canopy of string lights and stars that felt more permanent than they were. That night moved the way memory does—hazy at the edges, precise in flashes. Someone laughed so hard they cried. Someone cried and said they were fine. We danced until the grass gave under our feet, and still it didn’t feel like enough.

Now, Sunday. The end, the soft landing. Come back to Midwood. The food is casual—trucks lined up like old friends, ready to feed you something simple and good. Coffee in paper cups, maybe something sweet if you need it. A quiet corner if you don’t.

This is not a grand goodbye. It’s just a moment to look around and realize: this happened. The weekend, the vows, the flicker of something permanent. Stay as long as you like. Say goodbye if you need to. Or don’t.