I had been dreaming about that dress for weeks.
Baby blue, silk, with delicate lace trim—it was perfect. The moment I saw it in the boutique window, I knew it was meant to be my birthday gift.
“It’s too expensive,” Sean had said, barely glancing at it. “We’re saving for the wedding, remember?”
But I couldn’t stop thinking about it. I sent him pictures. Dropped hints. Even tried it on three times, imagining how stunning I’d look wearing it at my birthday party.
When the big day arrived, I was giddy with anticipation. My family filled our apartment, laughing and chatting under the twinkling lights my sister had hung. Sean kept smirking at me from across the room, his eyes twinkling with a secret.
This is it, I thought. He got me the dress.
Then the door opened.
Sean’s mother, Linda, swept in—wearing my dream dress.
“Sorry I’m late!” she trilled, oblivious to my frozen smile. “Sean insisted I wear this. Said I deserved something special.”
My stomach dropped.
Sean appeared beside me, pressing a small gift into my hands. “Happy birthday, babe.”
Inside? A Sephora gift card.
Fifty dollars.
I excused myself to the bathroom, where I splashed cold water on my face, trying to understand. Was this a joke? A mistake?
Later, when the guests were gone, Sean finally explained.
“I wanted to humble you,” he said casually, like he was discussing the weather. “You were getting too obsessed with that dress. Needed to see how you’d handle disappointment before we got married.”
A test.
That night, I packed my bags.
A week later, Linda called. Over coffee, she handed me a shopping bag—containing the dress, freshly cleaned.
“He lied to us both,” she said, her voice shaking. “Told me you picked it out for me.”
She reached across the table, gripping my hand. “Don’t go back to him. You deserve better.”
I didn’t.
And when I slipped that dress on—finally—it wasn’t just fabric I was wearing. It was freedom.
