When Margaret received a white maxi dress from her daughter-in-law, Anita, for the wedding, she immediately suspected a setup because of their fraught history.
Arriving at the ceremony, unexpected revelations awaited, and later, Anita reflected on the symbology of a white dress.
I didn’t even have to read the note to know the beautifully wrapped box on my doorstep was from Anita.
Who else would send me something so over-the-top? With a mix of curiosity and dread, I tore through the wrapping paper, revealing a stunning white maxi dress.
Then the note fell out.
“Please wear this to the wedding. Love, Anita.” Love, Anita? Really?
I could almost hear the sarcasm dripping off those words.
You see, Anita and I have had our fair share of disagreements. When she first started dating my son, James, I thought she was charming.
Modern, confident, and intelligent.
But then the clashes started.
It began with small things, mostly lifestyle choices, mostly. James had always been a bit of a mama’s boy, and Anita was too headstrong, too different from the traditional values I held dear.
But the real trouble started with the wedding planning.
She excluded me from every detail, every decision. I found out about the venue from a friend, for goodness’ sake! And now, this darn dress.
I grabbed my phone and dialed Linda, my best friend. “You won’t believe what Anita did now,” I said as soon as she picked up. “What happened?” Linda’s voice was a comforting anchor.
“She sent me a dress to wear to the wedding. A white dress! Can you imagine?”
I paced around my living room, my voice rising with every word.
“Hmm,” Linda said thoughtfully. “It could be a setup. Or it could be a misunderstanding.
Maybe you should talk to her?” I feared Margaret would never accept me, always seeing me as the woman who took her son away.
The thought of planning a wedding with her scrutinizing every detail was daunting. For my sanity, I had to exclude her. “Talk to her?” I echoed.
The very idea made me break out in a cold sweat. But Linda had a point.
The next day, I found myself sitting across from Anita in a quaint little café.
I could barely sip my coffee; my hands were trembling too much.
Anita looked composed as ever, a serene smile on her face. “You don’t like the dress?” Anita asked, her brow wrinkling.
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
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