I always imagined wedding dress shopping would be magical. But the moment Neil’s mother, Lora, stepped out of the car, pearls gleaming and judgment ready, I felt the spell break.
Inside the bridal shop, I tried to stay hopeful. Rows of satin and lace shimmered like clouds. But every dress I tried on was met with Lora’s disapproval: “Too much shoulder,” “Not flattering,” or worse—just a cold, silent tsk. Neil stood quietly, nodding along, his silence louder than her critiques.
I left the shop alone, heart bruised but determined. This was supposed to be my moment—not hers.
The next morning, a package arrived. Inside was a wedding dress—Lora’s version of what her son would “prefer.” No note. Just control wrapped in white fabric.
That was the final straw.
I told Neil I wouldn’t wear it. I wouldn’t let someone else rewrite my story. If he couldn’t stand up for me, I’d stand up for myself.
I returned the dress, chose one that made me feel radiant, and walked down the aisle with my head high. Not because everything was perfect—but because I finally chose me.
