When Daniel proposed, my joy was indescribable. Within days, I’d chosen the wedding dress I’d always dreamed of—soft, elegant, and white.
Then Margaret, Daniel’s mother, who had never accepted me—especially since I had a child from a previous relationship—saw it.
Her expression soured immediately. “Absolutely not. You can’t wear white.”
Confused, I asked, “Why not?”
She smirked bitterly, saying, “White symbolizes purity. You already have a child.”
I looked desperately toward Daniel, expecting support. Instead, he nodded reluctantly. “She’s got a point. It’s fair.”
Fair? How could that possibly be fair?
The next morning, I found my dress had vanished. In its place hung a dramatic, vivid red gown—purchased with my own money.
Margaret stood nearby, triumphant. “Now, this is appropriate.”
I swallowed my anger. They thought they’d won.
On my wedding day, I arrived wearing their choice—a bold red gown. Margaret, ironically in a pure white dress, looked delighted, as did Daniel in his matching white suit.
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