Under a canopy of fairy lights in February, Luke proposed as snow drifted like confetti—and I said yes without hesitation, believing we’d shared everything after three years together.
We quickly began planning a June wedding. I poured over flowers and cakes while Luke constantly deflected details like invitations or layout, promising a “special family tradition” he couldn’t yet explain.
On the morning of the wedding, in my childhood home, I dressed in my beloved gown. A vintage car arrived, and despite my excitement, something felt off when I saw only men inside the chapel—not my mom, sister, or friends.
Luke’s father gently led me aside to explain: only the bride and all men attend; women have a separate ceremony, a tradition dating back generations.
I fled outside, trembling, and called my confused mother—who was stuck at a women-only reception. Realizing I could not marry separated from the people I love, I walked back down the aisle and left.
In my gown, I arrived at the reception with the women—my mom, sister, friends. Surrounded by those who loved me, I toasted: “To choosing love over tradition.” The applause that followed was real and healing.
Later, in a hotel suite with my mom and sister, still in my dress, we laughed, ate pizza, and watched old movies. No regrets—only relief.