When my daughter Jane got engaged, we spent months creating her perfect ivory wedding dress. It was elegant, delicate—everything she dreamed of. But on her wedding day, she walked down the aisle in a dress as black as night.
The night before, I noticed Jack acting strange. Nervous, quiet—but weddings can do that, right? Still, something felt off.
Then came the shock: the dress. Black, not ivory. “Jane, what is this?” I asked, panicked. Her reply: “I need to do this.”
At the ceremony, guests gasped. Jack’s smile vanished. And then she spoke: “With this dress, I bury my hopes for this wedding—because real love doesn’t cheat days before the vows.”
She had found the messages. The lies. The betrayal. Jack begged, but Jane stood tall. She dropped her bouquet and walked away.
Later, she told me, “It felt like when we lost Dad. I thought I had something real… and then it was gone.”
I held her close and whispered, “You did the right thing. I’m so proud of you.”