I thought wedding dress shopping would be magical. I’d dreamed of it since I was a little girl—wrapping white sheets around myself and imagining silk, lace, and love. But the moment I walked into the boutique, that dream started to unravel. Neil’s mother, Lora, had tagged along. Uninvited. She arrived polished and poised, making it clear she had her own vision for the day. Each dress I tried was met with her criticism: “Too much shoulder,” “Not flattering,” or just a disapproving tsk. Neil stood silently in the corner,

offering no defense. I left the boutique that day—heartbroken and furious. It was supposed to be my moment. The next morning, a box arrived. Inside was a dress Lora had chosen. Ivory satin, high-collared, and stiff. A note taped to it read: “This will match Neil’s suit better. You’ll look good beside him.” I wasn’t a bride to her. I was an accessory. That’s when I knew: if Neil wouldn’t stand up for me, I had to stand up for myself. I made a quiet,