It wasn't that he shuffled shyly up the aisle on cue, fiercely clutching the ring cushion to his chest and smiling his broadest smile, or that the whole congregation laughed and smiled at his little performance.
It wasn't the fact that people told me endlessly that he 'stole the show' and 'behaved wonderfully' or 'did us proud' and got down on their knees to photograph him time and time again.
It wasn't that he amused himself quite happily for hours with bits of gravel and a fist full of quoits whilst the rest of us stood about sipping champagne.
It wasn't that he ran happily in and out of the marquee between courses, smiling up at strangers, or that he trotted off quite happily with his grandparents at the end of the day without giving us a second thought.
And it wasn't that he never flagged once despite missing his nap and never complained once about the blisters hiding beneath his smart, shiny shoes.
It was the fact that he was just himself, dressed in a fancy outfit and it wasn't just good enough, it was perfect.