I thought I knew every detail of my daughter’s wedding — the colors, the venue, the music, the flowers. We’d planned every inch of it together for almost a year. But when she walked down the aisle, I felt my heart stop. Jane wasn’t wearing the soft ivory gown she’d spent months designing. She was wearing black.
My name is Linda, I’m 55 years old, and what I witnessed that day changed how I saw my daughter forever.
Jane had always been a dreamer — creative, emotional, stubborn in the best way. When she was little, she’d wrap herself in curtains, pretend they were ball gowns, and march down our hallway humming the wedding march. “Mom, one day I’ll wear the most beautiful wedding dress in the world,” she’d say. And I’d always tell her, “You’d better let me be there to see it.”
When she met Dylan in college, it felt like her dream was unfolding just as she’d always imagined. He was charming in a quiet way — kind eyes, steady hands, the type of man who remembered small things. He adored her. Or so I thought.
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