Since childhood, I dreamed of this day—walking barefoot through the backyard, draping white sheets as makeshift lace, imagining a wedding of my own. With Neil, that dream was finally within reach. But when we arrived at the bridal shop, his mother, Lora, stepped out of the car, her presence casting a shadow over my excitement.
Inside, she scrutinized each dress, dismissing them with harsh critiques. Neil remained silent, as always. I left, determined to find my own path.
The next day, a package arrived—a wedding dress from Lora, ivory satin and stiff, accompanied by a note: “I think this dress will match Neil’s suit better. You’ll look good beside him. Love, Lora.” Her words stung; I wasn’t a partner in her eyes, just an accessory.
On the wedding day, I stood firm. When asked if I took Neil, I said, “No. I need someone who sees me as a partner, not just someone who looks good on paper.” Turning to the crowd, I declared, “Today isn’t a wedding. It’s a goodbye.” I walked away, alone but liberated.
The next morning, I woke in a friend’s guest room, the weight of the past lifting. Messages flooded in, affirming my choice. One from Neil simply said, “I’m sorry.” I didn’t reply. No ring, no regret—just me, reclaiming my story.