**The Wedding Dress**
I knew something was wrong the moment I stepped into the restaurant. It felt too empty for a Friday evening, the lights too dim, and the waiters smile too forced. Though normally calm, Oliver gripped my hand tightly.
“Your table,” the waiter gestured, and I stepped into a small private room. The glow of a hundred candles flickered against the snow-white tablecloth, casting strange shadows. In the centre stood a bouquet of deep red rosesmy favourite. Soft music played in the background.
“Oliver,” I whispered, “whats going on?”
Instead of answering, he dropped to one knee, a trembling ring in his hand.
“Eleanor Whitmore,” he said solemnly, “I spent ages thinking how to make this moment special. But I realisedit doesnt matter where or how. What matters iswill you marry me?”
I stared at his flushed face, the stubborn lock of hair falling forward, his hesitant smile, and felt my heart swell.
“Yes,” I breathed. “Of course, yes!”
The ring slipped onto my finger. As I pressed against Oliver, breathing in his familiar cologne, I thought*this* is happiness. Simple and clear as sunlight.
But our peace shattered a week later.
“What do you mean, *by yourselves*?” Rose Oliver snapped, fussing with her hair. “Thats impossible! A wedding is seriousit needs experience, a womans touch. Ive already found the perfect venue”
“Mum,” Oliver cut in gently, “we appreciate your help, but we want to plan it ourselves.”
“*Yourselves*?” She crossed her arms. “You dont understand! My niece”
I watched silently as my future mother-in-law paced the room, lecturing about tradition, propriety, and “what people will think.” All while appraising the flat with sharp glances, as if calculating what needed changing.
“Mum, weve already booked The White Jasmine”
Rose recoiled as if bitten. “*That* modern place? No, noonly The Classics! The chandeliers, the linens! The owners an old friend”
“Mum.” Olivers voice turned steely. “Were paying for our wedding. And well celebrate where *we* want.”
Rose faltered, lifting her chin. “Fine. But dont say I didnt warn you.”
She left in a cloud of expensive perfume and brewing storm clouds.
“Sorry,” Oliver murmured, pulling me close. “Shes intense.”
I said nothing. A voice inside whispered*this is just the beginning.*
And it was.
The weeks dissolved into endless arguments, veiled jabs, and hidden criticisms. Rose found fault in everythingthe floral arrangements, the seating plan.
“Pink peonies? In September? No, only white calla lilies! And the arch must be grander. And this *amateur* bandgoodness, I know a *proper* quartet”
I clung to sanity only through my mother, Margaret Whitmore, whose quiet wisdom kept me grounded.
“Dont let her rattle you,” shed say when I arrived at her doorstep, exhausted after another battle. “*Youre* the bride. Your choice. She just cant accept her sons grown up.”
But the true explosion came over the cake.
“Three tiers? Where are the sugar roses? The figurines?” Rose wailed, flipping through a catalogue.
“Mum,” Oliver sighed, “we want something simple. Elegant.”
“*Simple*?” She near-sobbed. “Youll *humiliate* me! People will whisperlook at the architects son, serving *school-dinner* cake!”
I snapped.
“Rose, this is *our* wedding. Not yours.”
Silence.
She paled, then flushed, standing abruptly. “Well. I see Im *unwanted* here.”
The door slammed hard enough to rattle the windows.
“Shell calm down,” Oliver muttered.
I stayed quiet. My heart felt heavy.
Then, two days latersomething unbelievable.
At my final dress fitting, I overheard the shop assistant on the phone:
“Yes, Mrs Oliver, your dress will be ready. That lovely ivory shadealmost like the brides”
My vision darkened. I fled, forgetting my measurements, dialling Mum with shaking fingers.
“Shesshes *bought a wedding dress*”
“Dont cry, love,” Mum said firmly. “Ill handle it.”
“How?”
“Just trust me.”
The call ended. Standing on the pavement, dread coiled in my chest. Three days until the wedding, and I no longer wanted it.
The morning dawned with rain. I stared out the window, trying to still the tremor in my legs while hairdressers fussed behind me.
“Eleanor, stop fidgeting,” one chided, wrestling with a stubborn curl.
I barely heard. One thought consumed mewhat dress would Rose wear today?
“Darling!” Mum swept in. “Let me look at you.”
I turned. She pressed a hand to her mouth.
“Oh, youre *stunning*.”
“Mum” I caught her worried glance”did you fix it?”
She only smiled mysteriously. “Trust me.”
At the registry office, joy and nerves blurred togetherthe music, the registrars voice, Olivers shining eyes, camera flashes. The ring barely slid onto my trembling finger.
“I pronounce you husband and wife!”
Our first kiss was distractedmy eyes darting through the crowd for an ivory dress.
But Rose was nowhere.
“Shell meet us at the venue,” Oliver whispered. “Said she had hair troubles.”
I nodded, stomach twisting.
The restaurant was perfectionwhite linens, crystal lights, cascading flowers. Guests took their seats; waiters flitted with champagne.
Thena black Mercedes pulled up.
I gripped Olivers arm. “Look.”
Rose stepped out. Wearing *the* dressivory, beaded, nearly identical to mine.
But she barely took three steps inside before a waiter collided with her, tipping dark-red sauce down the pristine silk.
“*Goodness*, Im *so* sorry!” He dabbed frantically. “Cherry coulis*dreadful* mess!”
Rose froze. Her face cycled through emotions so violently I had to look away.
“IIll *be back*,” she hissed, retreating to the car.
My gaze found Mumserenely adjusting flowers, the faintest smirk on her lips.
“You know,” Oliver said suddenly, “Im glad that happened.”
I blinked.
He smirked. “She *always* has to control everything. Even todaycouldnt resist outshining you.”
I leaned into him. Outside, rain still fell, but peace settled over me.
Rose never returned. We danced, laughed, toastedblissfully happy.
As for her dress? Well sometimes fate sets things right. Even if it takes cherry coulis, a clumsy waiter, and a mother who *always* knows best.
