You never forget the first time you find the dress.
For me, it was love at first shimmer. Ivory satin that moved like moonlight, lace sleeves delicate as breath, and a row of tiny pearl buttons that made me feel like I’d stepped into a fairy tale. I was 12 when I started dreaming of this moment—and now, at 28, it was finally happening. My wedding was just a week away, and every little detail had fallen perfectly into place.
Until I walked into my room and caught my future mother-in-law photographing the dress hanging in my closet.
She spun around, startled, but plastered on a saccharine smile. “Oh, honey! It’s just such a beautiful dress. I wanted to remember it.”
I laughed nervously. Margaret had always been a bit much—dramatic, nosy, and allergic to boundaries—but I chalked it up to excitement. Jake, my fiancé, said it best: “She’s just enthusiastic. Try not to take it personally.”
But as the days ticked down to the wedding, Margaret’s “enthusiasm” turned into an uncanny obsession.
“What shade of lipstick are you wearing?”
“Which earrings are you wearing again—the pearls or the diamonds?”