I’d always known wedding planning would be stressful, but I never imagined I’d end up looking like a punk rock reject two days before walking down the aisle.
The whole mess started during what I’d dubbed “Wedding Week,” when Linda dropped by our apartment unannounced almost every day to “help” with last-minute details.
She’d been picking at every decision since Ryan proposed, from the venue (“Oh, a backyard wedding? How… quaint.”) to the menu (“Buffet style? Well, I suppose some people prefer casual.”) to the flowers (“Wildflowers? How… rustic.”).
It was driving both of us insane, but Linda’s passive-aggressive remarks made it impossible to confront her.
I’d spent months carefully crafting what I thought would be the perfect intimate ceremony.
Everything was designed to reflect who Ryan and I really were, not who his mother wanted us to be.
A few days before the wedding, Linda perched on our secondhand couch, scanning our living room with the same sour expression she always wore during these visits. We’d also had to shrug off numerous remarks about our decor choices since we moved in together. Linda always found something to pick on.
“Are you sure you want to wear your hair like that for the wedding, dear?” Linda’s perfectly plucked eyebrows arched as she studied my ash blonde waves.
“Your natural blond is quite pretty. And with your complexion…” She let the sentence dangle like a guillotine blade.
I forced a smile, gripping my coffee mug until my knuckles went white. “Yes, Linda. I’m sure. It’s close to my natural color anyway. I’m only touching it up tomorrow at the salon, like I told you last week.”
“Hmm.” She took a delicate sip of her tea.
“Well, it’s your day, I suppose. Though I do wish you’d consider that lovely upscale salon I recommended. The one where all my friends go.” She sighed dramatically. “A salon that lets you bring your own dye seems a bit… well, I understand budget constraints can be… limiting.”
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