At fifty, I thought I had experienced the peaks and valleys of love. My first husband, Mark, my high school sweetheart and father of my son Ethan, passed away eight years ago, leaving an emptiness I carried like a shadow. Life felt quiet, and I never imagined I’d open my heart again—until I met David two years ago.
David was gentle, kind, and attentive in ways that reminded me of Mark. He didn’t pity me; he admired me. When he proposed, I cried for joy and disbelief. This time, I wanted a real wedding, a chance to wear the gown I had always dreamed of—something I never had the first time.
After weeks of searching, I found it: an ivory satin dress with delicate lace sleeves and a fitted waist that made me feel radiant. But my happiness didn’t sit well with everyone.
One afternoon, my daughter-in-law Vanessa let herself in while I tried on the gown. Her words, laced with judgment, cut deep. “Don’t you think that’s a little much… for someone your age?” she said, smirking.
I brushed it off, but the tension lingered. Then, on my wedding morning, the unthinkable happened: my dress was gone, replaced with a shapeless beige garment. Vanessa appeared, coldly insisting I wear it, claiming my real dress was embarrassing.
Tears stung my eyes. “Where is my dress?” I whispered.
Before she could answer, a voice rang out behind her:
“How long have you been talking to my mother like this?”
It was Ethan. In his hands, my real gown, rescued from Vanessa’s clutches.
Curiosity hangs on the edge—how would Ethan handle this confrontation, and would I get to wear the dress of my dreams?
