I’m Diane, 50, and my daughter Sophie’s engagement filled me with joy. When she called, squealing, “Mom, Alex asked me to marry him!” I knew it was coming—they’d been a perfect pair for five years, or so I thought. Wedding planning consumed us, and Sophie’s dress was the centerpiece. She wanted a custom gown, unique to her. My friend Karen, a brilliant seamstress, took on the challenge. “Sophie will look magical,” Karen said, sketching a flowing dress. Months later, the cream lace gown with a shimmering train was Sophie’s dream come true.
The evening before the wedding, Alex seemed off. Normally kind, he was quiet, avoiding Sophie’s eyes. “You okay?” I asked. He nodded, “Just wedding jitters.” I let it go, but doubt crept in. The next morning, our home buzzed—bridesmaids giggling, hairpins clinking. Sophie radiated happiness. Karen arrived with a white box, grinning. “The dress is here!” I lifted the lid, expecting elegance, but saw a jet-black gown. My hands trembled. “Karen, what’s this?” She touched my arm. “It’s okay, Diane.” Sophie, serene, said, “This is what I need, Mom.” My throat tightened. “Sophie, it’s your wedding!”
She squeezed my hand, firm. “I know.” Karen guided me to my seat as music swelled. The venue glowed with roses and candlelight, guests chattering excitedly. Then Sophie entered, cloaked in black, her dark veil trailing. Murmurs spread. “What’s she wearing?” someone whispered. Alex’s smile vanished, his face pale. I recalled a film we’d seen, where a betrayed bride wore black to grieve her love. Sophie’s choice was clear. At the altar, Alex mumbled, “What’s going on?” Sophie stood tall, silent. The officiant hesitated but proceeded.
During vows, Alex promised devotion, voice unsteady. Sophie stepped back, her voice steady. “This dress mourns the love I thought we had, Alex, because true love doesn’t cheat days before our day.” Gasps echoed. “He did what?” someone muttered. Alex pleaded, “Sophie, please!” but she was resolute. She dropped her bouquet, walked away, and took my hand. Outside, she confessed, “I saw his messages three days ago.” I held her close. “You were so brave,” I said. She smiled faintly. “I’ll wear white someday, for real love.” Her strength shone. Share this tale—it might spark hope in someone.
