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.
The night before the wedding, I noticed something. Jack wasn’t acting like himself. He was always polite, a little quiet, maybe, but a good man. But that night, he was different. He barely looked at Jane, and his answers were short and distant.
“You okay?” I asked him when Jane stepped away for a moment.
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.
The next morning, the house buzzed with excitement. The makeup artist was in the living room. Bridesmaids rushed in and out. Jane sat in front of the mirror, glowing.