From the day I married David, I sensed that his mother, Gertrude, wasn’t thrilled about our union. She never said it outright, but the subtle remarks, the backhanded compliments, and the judgment in her eyes made her feelings clear. Still, I always tried to stay gracious—focusing on the love David and I shared.
One evening, during a family dinner, the tension reached a new peak.
“Grace, dear, you might want to try thyme in the soup next time,” Gertrude remarked with a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “It’s a little… bland.” David, ever the optimist, complimented the food. But she wasn’t finished. “And that lipstick? Not the best for your complexion.”
I stayed composed, offered a polite smile, and reminded myself not to take it personally. But then she leaned in, voice hushed and sharp. “You must understand—you’re just not the kind of woman I imagined for my son.”
That moment stayed with me. Not because it hurt—but because it woke something up inside me.
Later that night, I retreated to my atelier—my creative haven where I designed clothes, something I’d loved doing for years. A flyer on my desk caught my attention: an upcoming beauty and talent competition. It was sent by my friend Lily, and at that moment, I made a decision. I would enter—not to prove anything to anyone else, but to remind myself of who I am.
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