When my daughter walked down the aisle, it wasn’t in the ivory gown we had spent months perfecting. Instead, she wore a dress as black as night, and the real shock wasn’t the color but the reason behind it.

I still remember the day Jane called me, her voice bubbling with excitement.

“Mom! He proposed!” she nearly screamed through the phone. I had known it was coming—Jack had been in her life for five years. They were happy. At least, that’s what I thought back then. From that moment on, the wedding planning took over our lives. And the first thing we decided on was the dress.

Jane had always dreamed of something unique. Nothing off the rack. It had to be custom-made, just for her. Luckily, my best friend, Helen, was one of the most talented seamstresses in town.

“Oh, we’re gonna make her look like a queen,” Helen had said, sketching the first designs.

For months, she worked on it. She poured her heart into every stitch, every bead, every delicate fold of fabric. It was time-consuming and expensive, but it was perfect.

A few days ago, I saw it nearly finished. Ivory satin, delicate lace, a long flowing train. It was exactly what Jane had dreamed of since she was a little girl.

Everything was falling into place.

Jack forced a smile. “Yeah. Just a little nervous, you know?”

I nodded. It made sense. Weddings were big, emotional events.

But still… something felt off.