When my future daughter-in-law, Anita, handed me a white maxi dress to wear to her wedding, my stomach dropped.
White? At a wedding?
Everyone knows you don’t wear white unless you’re the bride. Was this a test? A cruel joke?
Anita and I had never seen eye to eye. She was fiercely independent, while I… well, I’ll admit I’d been protective of my son, James. Planning the wedding had been tense—she’d excluded me from every decision. And now this?
I called my best friend, Linda, in a panic. “She’s setting me up!” I hissed. “She wants me to embarrass myself!”
Linda hesitated. “Or maybe she’s trying to include you?”
I wasn’t convinced. But when I confronted Anita at a café, her response stunned me.
“Margaret,” she said softly, “in my culture, white symbolizes new beginnings. I wanted you to feel honored.”
Still suspicious, I wore the dress to the wedding—heart pounding, palms sweating.
Then I walked in.
The venue took my breath away. Vibrant colors, intricate fabrics, Anita glowing in a red sari—nothing like the traditional white gown I’d expected.
Anita’s father greeted me warmly. “Thank you for wearing white,” he said. “It means so much to us.”
Tears filled my eyes. This wasn’t a trick. It was an invitation—to join their family, their traditions.
Later, Anita squeezed my hand. “This is a new chapter for all of us.”
And for the first time, I believed her.
