My mom’s wedding was a joyful new chapter, but my Aunt Susan tried to hijack it in a white gown. I cleverly ensured her stunt flopped, saving Mom’s special day. Five years ago, my dad’s car accident shattered our lives. I was 13, and Mom, 35, held us together with quiet strength, raising me alone. She avoided love until she met Paul. One evening, her shy smile over tacos hinted at change. “I’ve met someone,” she said, blushing. Paul was calm, caring, and made her glow like she hadn’t since Dad. Her happiness sealed it for me. “Wedding bells soon?” I asked, grinning.
I threw myself into planning, wanting Mom’s day flawless. Family sent warm wishes, but Aunt Susan, Mom’s younger sister, texted snarky jabs. “Another marriage? Now?” and “White dress? Bold choice.” Susan always envied Mom, muttering about her own rocky love life. Her texts raised red flags, so I saved them. At a family gathering, she scoffed, “A big wedding? Really necessary?” Mom stayed kind, but I saw her flinch. I braced for Susan’s drama. The wedding was beautiful—Mom dazzled in lace, the venue soft with daisies. As she danced with Grandma, Susan entered in a radiant white gown, posing like the bride.
The crowd froze. Susan laughed, “White’s my best look!” Mom’s smile wavered, and my stomach dropped. I hugged her, whispering, “I’ll fix this.” She begged, “No scene, please.” I nodded, planning quietly. With my boyfriend, Sam, I moved Susan’s seat from a prime spot to one by the kids’ table, near the DJ’s speakers. “She wants eyes on her,” I said. Sam smiled. We watched Susan reach her seat, her confidence cracking amid juice spills and noise. She glared, then stormed over. “Why’s my seat changed?” I smiled. “You wanted to stand out, so we put you center stage.” She paused, seeing guests’ phones, and sat back down.
Kids’ music boomed, and a child flung a cookie her way. Susan cringed, asking others to swap seats, but they declined politely. Soon, she grabbed her bag and left, her gown catching on a sticky table. The party soared—Mom’s joy returned, laughter rang out. Photos showed love, no trace of Susan’s dress. I saved her texts and photos for future protection. Later, she sent a vague apology, and Mom forgave her, but I’m watchful. That day, I guarded Mom’s happiness with love, not drama, and I’d do it again, proud to protect her light.