When my daughter-in-law, Alice, handed me the neatly wrapped box, I didn’t know what to expect. It was two weeks before her wedding to my son, Michael, and we had just sat down for lunch at a quiet little café she liked. The conversation had been polite, if a bit stiff.
Alice and I had never been close. We had what you might call a “cordial distance” — civil on the surface, but always careful not to step on each other’s toes. So when she slid the box across the table with a bright, expectant smile and said, “I got you something to wear for the wedding,” I blinked in surprise.
“Oh, Alice, that’s very kind of you,” I said, cautiously undoing the ribbon. Inside lay a pristine, flowing maxi dress, white, delicate, with subtle lace detailing around the sleeves and neckline. My heart sank.
It was white. I blinked again, thinking maybe the lighting was playing tricks on me. But no, it was as white as freshly fallen snow.
My immediate thought was, she’s setting me up. Everyone knows the unspoken rule of weddings: no guest, especially the mother of the groom, wears white. It’s considered disrespectful, even insulting, because it’s the bride’s color, her moment.
And Alice, meticulous and image-conscious as she was, knew that better than anyone. I tried to sound calm. “Alice… this is lovely, but are you sure?
It’s white. Wouldn’t it—”
She interrupted quickly, smiling in that polite but slightly forced way she had when she wanted to end a conversation before it began. “I know it’s white, Helen.
That’s intentional. I want you to wear it. It’s a symbol of unity, of purity, like we’re joining families, you know?”
I stared at her, trying to read her face.
“You’re sure about this?”
“Absolutely,” she said, a little too firmly. “Please, Helen. I picked it just for you.
It would really mean a lot if you wore it. Honestly, I’d be upset if you didn’t.”
That last line hit like a warning cloaked in a smile. I nodded slowly, my chest tightening.
“Well, if you insist.”
As the waiter came by with the check, she reached across the table, touching my hand briefly. “Thank you, Helen. This means so much to me.”
I smiled back, though my mind was spinning.
What is she planning? In the days leading up to the wedding, I couldn’t shake the dread that kept gnawing at me. I laid the dress on my bed multiple times, examining every stitch.
It was undeniably beautiful, flowing, elegant, and modest. But every time I looked at it, my stomach knotted. Michael, my son, didn’t make things easier.
When I asked him what Alice’s color scheme was, hoping to find some excuse to wear something else, he just shrugged. “Mom, I think it’s mostly neutral tones. Honestly, wear whatever you’re comfortable in.
Alice said she gave you something, right? She was so excited about it.”
Excited. That word made me uneasy.
You see, Alice and I had a rocky beginning. When Michael first brought her home, I didn’t dislike her exactly, but something about her rubbed me the wrong way. Maybe it was how quickly she seemed to take over planning family dinners, changing how Michael spent holidays, subtly deciding things that used to be ours.
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page.
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