I should’ve known something was wrong when Adam’s mother, Veronica, handed me a list of “acceptable” wedding colors. But nothing prepared me for the moment she declared I couldn’t wear white.
“Red is more traditional for women like you,” she said, her smile dripping with fake sweetness.
Women like me—a single mom.
Adam agreed. “It’s only fair,” he said, as if my past somehow made me unworthy of a white dress.
I was heartbroken. But then I got angry.
So when Veronica took it upon herself to return my white gown and replace it with a tacky red one, I didn’t argue. I just smiled and said, “Perfect.”
Behind the scenes, I was plotting.
On the wedding day, I played my part—walking down the aisle in the red dress while Veronica smirked from the front row in her own white lace monstrosity. But when I reached the altar, I turned to our guests and said, “Thank you all for wearing red today.”
Confused murmurs filled the room—until my friends and family stood up, revealing red accessories hidden under their clothes.
Then, in one swift move, I unzipped the red dress, showing the elegant black gown I’d chosen for myself.
“I won’t marry into a family that thinks love comes with rules,” I said.
The gasps were deafening. Adam turned purple. Veronica looked like she’d been slapped.
But as I walked away, my daughter Emma by my side, I realized something: Sometimes, the bravest thing you can do is call off your own wedding.
