My DIL Laughed at the Pink Wedding Dress I Sewed for Myself – She Never Expected My Son to Step In

“You’ve got a grandson. You’re supposed to wear navy or beige, not… Barbie pink.

Honestly, it’s pathetic.”

Josh stayed silent and stared at his mug like it held the answer to world peace.

I felt the heat crawl up my neck. “Well,” I said, standing up, “it makes me happy.”

Emily rolled her eyes. “Whatever!”

But her words had already done the damage.

I smiled, poured more tea, and asked about her work, like I hadn’t just been kicked in the gut.

Still, I told myself I wasn’t going to let her take this from me. Because joy, once stitched together, doesn’t come undone that easily.

The morning of the wedding, I stood in front of the mirror in my modest bedroom.

The blush dress hugged my body in the gentlest way. My hair was pinned, my lipstick subtle, and for once, I didn’t feel like someone’s mother or someone’s ex.

I felt like a woman about to start again.

I ran my hands down the satin slowly, pausing at the waistline. The seams weren’t perfect.

A few stitches were uneven, and the zipper caught slightly at the side. But it didn’t matter. For the first time in decades, I felt like I was standing in something that reflected me.

Not the tired version I had learned to live as, but the woman I’d always kept tucked away.

At the hall, the air buzzed with warmth. Guests came up to hug me and some even complimented the dress.

“So unique,” one said.

“You look radiant,” said another.

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