**The White Dress**
I knew something was off the moment we stepped into the restaurant. It was too quiet for a Friday evening, the lighting too dim, and the waiters smile too forced. Even though Martin was usually calm, his grip on my hand was unusually tight.
Your table, the waiter announced, leading us into a small alcove. Dozens of candles flickered in the half-light, casting strange shadows across the snow-white tablecloth. At the center stood a bouquet of deep red rosesmy favourite. Soft music played in the background.
Martin, I whispered, whats going on?
Instead of answering, he dropped to one knee, a ring trembling in his fingers.
Emma Whitmore, he said solemnly, Ive spent ages trying to make this moment perfect. But I realisedit doesnt matter where or how. The only thing that matters is will you marry me?
I looked at his nervous face, the stubborn lock of hair falling over his forehead, the hesitant smile, and felt something warm flood my chest.
Yes, I breathed. Of course, yes!
The ring slipped onto my finger, and I pressed into him, inhaling the familiar scent of his cologne. This was happinesssimple and clear as daylight.
But a week later, the peace shattered.
You cant be seriousdoing it *yourselves*? Margaret Trenton huffed, smoothing her hair with irritation. A wedding is serious business. It needs experience, a womans touch. Ive already found the perfect venue
Mum, Martin cut in gently, we appreciate it, but we want to plan it ourselves.
Yourselves? She crossed her arms. You havent the faintest idea! My niece
I watched silently as my future mother-in-law paced the room. She rattled on about tradition, propriety, the importance of not embarrassing yourselves in front of everyone. All the while, her sharp eyes darted aroundcalculating what needed changing.
Mum, Martin tried again, weve already booked The White Jasmine. You know it?
Margarets face twisted like shed bitten a lemon. That modern place? No, noThe Grand Oak! The chandeliers, the napkins! The managers an old friend
Mum. His voice turned to steel. Were paying for the wedding. And well have it where *we* want.
She stiffened, chin high. Fine. Dont say I didnt warn you.
She left in a cloud of expensive perfume and looming storm clouds.
Sorry, Martin muttered, pulling me close. Shes a bit intense.
I said nothing. A small voice whispered*This is only the beginning.*
And it was. The next weeks became an endless cycle of arguments, hints, and veiled insults. Margaret found fault in everythingthe floral arrangements, the table settings.
Peach roses? In *September*? No, white calla lilies! And the arch needs to be grander. The musiciansgood heavens, must you hire amateurs? I know a quartet from the Royal Academy
I clung to my mothers quiet support.
Dont mind her, Mum would say when I slumped onto her sofa after another battle. Its your wedding. She just cant stand her son making his own choices.
But the real storm came over the cake.
Three tiers? Where are the sugar flowers? The figurines? Margaret nearly wept. Youll humiliate me! People will whisperlook at the famous architects son, serving *canteen cake*!
I snapped. Mrs. Trenton, lets be clear. This is *our* wedding. Not yours.
Silence.
She paled, then flushed, standing abruptly. I see Im not needed here. Do as you like!
The door slammed hard enough to rattle the glass.
Well, Martin sighed, shes offended.
I felt hollow.
Then, two days latersomething unbelievable happened.
At my final dress fitting, I overheard the shop assistant on the phone. Yes, Mrs. Trenton, your gown will be ready. Ivory silk, just like the brides
My vision darkened. I fled, fingers shaking as I called Mum.
Shes *deliberately* ruining it, I choked. She bought a wedding dress!
Hush, Mum said firmly. Ill handle it.
How?
Trust me.
The call ended. I stood in the street, dread coiling tight. Three days until the wedding, and I no longer wanted it.
The morning dawned with rain. I stared out the window, trembling as stylists fussed behind me. One persistent curl refused to behave.
Emma, *stop* fidgeting
I barely heard her. All I could think was*What dress is Margaret wearing today?*
Darling! Mum swept in. Let me see you.
I turned. She pressed her hands to her cheeks. Oh, youre *lovely*.
Mum, I caught her anxious glance, did you think of something?
She gave a secretive smile. Dont worry. Todays your dayno one will spoil it.
At the registry office, everything blurredmusic, vows, Martins shining eyes, camera flashes. The ring *wouldnt* slide onmy hands shookbut finally, it settled.
I pronounce you husband and wife!
Our first kiss as newlyweds was distractedI was scanning the crowd for ivory silk.
Margaret wasnt there.
Shell meet us at the reception, Martin murmured. Something about her hair
I nodded, stomach knotting.
The White Jasmine was breathtakingcrystal chandeliers, white linens, flowers everywhere. For a moment, I forgot my dread.
Thena black Mercedes pulled up.
Look I gripped Martins arm.
Margaret Trenton stepped out. She wore *the* dressivory silk, beaded, nearly identical to mine.
But she barely took two steps before a waiter stumbled, tipping a tray of dark red cherry sauce onto her pristine gown.
Oh, *God*Im *so* sorry! He dabbed frantically. This is *dreadfully* awkward!
Margaret froze, face cycling through fury, horror, humiliation.
IIll be back, she stammered, retreating to her car.
My gaze flicked to Mumcalmly adjusting a vase, the ghost of a smirk on her lips.
You know, Martin said suddenly, Im almost glad that happened.
I stared.
He smiled tiredly. She *always* has to control everything. Even todaycouldnt resist trying to outshine you.
I leaned into him.
Rain pattered outside, but I felt oddly at peace.
Margaret never returned to the reception. We danced, laughed, toastedhappy, despite it all.
As for her dress well, sometimes fate sorts things out itself. Even if it takes cherry sauce, a clumsy waiter, and a mothers quiet revenge.
**Lesson learned:** No one can steal your joy unless you let themand sometimes, the universe hands you justice in the messiest, most poetic way.
