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When Daniel was in the room, she’d turn into the softest, most patient, most “helpful” mother in the world.
“Oh, sweetheart,” she’d coo, “Emily and I get along so well, don’t we?
But the second he took a phone call or turned his back, her face would harden.
She’d lean toward me and whisper, “Are you sure you want to wear that, Emily? You don’t want to embarrass yourself in front of the guests, do you?
My son deserves excellence… don’t make me regret this marriage.”
But because I hated conflict, and I loved Daniel, I tried to keep the peace, telling myself all the things women tell themselves when they’re trying to survive: It’s just temporary. It’s not worth a fight.
But nothing could have prepared me for what they did on my wedding day.
I was standing near the entrance of the church, right before the ceremony.
The guests were already seated, and I was smoothing my dress, trying to take one last moment to breathe. The music was playing softly, and I felt that amazing mix of nervous joy bubbling up in my chest.
And then the double doors of the church swung open.
Behind her were her two sisters, Jane and Alice. And trailing behind them, their three daughters.
Six women in total, and every one of them was wearing a white dress.
Not off-white, or cream, but bridal white.
They didn’t stop at color either.
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