I used to believe weddings brought out the best in people. Growing up in a small Virginia town, I watched cousins walk down flower-lined aisles, families shedding happy tears, and everyone pretending life was simple. I thought mine would be like that—imperfect, yes, but at least respectful, at least free of the shadows that haunted my childhood.
That illusion shattered the night before my wedding.
I’m Lieutenant Commander Sarah Mitchell, U.S. Navy. Fourteen years of service. Two deployments to the Persian Gulf. Years stationed in Japan. Now working naval intelligence at the Pentagon. I grew up in a house where my accomplishments meant nothing if they didn’t make my parents look good. My younger brother, Kyle, could do no wrong. I could do no right. Joining the Navy at eighteen wasn’t just a career—it was survival. And it made me someone my family would never understand.
Returning home for the wedding, I hoped for peace. A weekend of civility. My fiancé, David, stayed with his parents, blissfully unaware of the tension simmering under my family’s façade. My mother buzzed around with her checklists. My father lingered gruff and distant. Kyle scrolled his phone like a teenager with nothing to say. It all felt fake, staged.
Upstairs, four wedding dresses hung in their garment bags: a vintage satin gown from David’s grandmother, a lace mermaid dress, a simple crepe gown, and a tea-length retro piece. I hadn’t been sentimental about dresses, but I wanted a choice. Something that felt like me.
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