Everything about my wedding to Evan was meant to feel peaceful and deeply personal. After six years together, we’d planned a celebration that reflected our life—simple, joyful, and sincere. Beneath a canopy of trees on my aunt’s farmhouse property, we were set to exchange vows surrounded by our closest family and friends. There would be no lavish ballroom or extravagant displays—just string lights, home-cooked barbecue, and a bluegrass band playing under the stars.
But peace, as it turned out, wasn’t what fate—or my father’s girlfriend, Janine—had in mind.
Janine, 42, had been dating my dad for about two years. She was successful, stylish, and confident—traits that would be admirable if they weren’t often paired with an exhausting need to control every room she entered. Family dinners usually turned into her monologues about wellness trends or her latest design projects, and over time, her presence became a storm that swept through every gathering.
The first major sign of trouble appeared after Evan and I got engaged. Before I could share the happy news myself, Janine blurted it out to distant relatives at brunch, robbing us of the moment. Her response—“Oh no! Oops! My bad, sweetie”—echoed in my mind long after the laughter faded.
Still, nothing could have prepared me for what came next.
At a Sunday dinner weeks before the wedding, Janine announced with great fanfare that she had already chosen her outfit for the big day. When she proudly showed me a photo, my breath caught—it was a full-length white gown, detailed with lace and beads. A wedding dress.
When I pointed this out, she brushed it off with a laugh. “Oh, come on! It’s ivory, not white. No one will confuse me with the bride!”
My dad said nothing. I was stunned. And then came the revelation that she’d seen a photo of my dress—because my father had shown it to her.
Later, my seamstress called to say Janine had reached out, asking her to recreate my gown in a “more glamorous” style. My vision—the design inspired by my late mother’s dress—was being stolen. I knew then that confronting her head-on would only feed her theatrics. If Janine wanted the spotlight, I’d have to change the stage.
That night, I turned to Evan. “I have an idea,” I said quietly. “If she wants attention, we’ll give her all of it—just not the way she expects.”