Later that week, I brought it up with Anna while we washed our dinner dishes in my kitchen.
“Do you think I’m being foolish, sweetheart?” I asked. “Trying again, I mean?”
My daughter dried her hands and looked at me like she was choosing her words carefully.
“Not at all,” she said. “You’ve spent years putting everyone else first. Dad. Me. My kids… But who’s been looking after you?”
I didn’t have an answer.
“You deserve joy, Mom,” she said, placing a damp hand over mine. “You deserve to laugh again, to have date nights, and be adored again. Love doesn’t come with an expiration date. So… I want you to choose this. Choose yourself and enjoy the life you have ahead.”
Her words stayed with me for a long time.
And then, one quiet afternoon, Henry asked me to marry him. We were sitting on a blanket under an old oak tree by the pond.
“We’ve both lost so much,” Henry said, looking at me. “Maybe it’s time we started gaining again. Together, Marlene, what do you say?”
I said yes.
We decided on a small wedding. We didn’t want anything grand, just romantic and intimate, with family and a few close friends. I imagined soft music playing in the garden and the kind of wildflowers Henry always brought me from his yard.
But even with that simplicity, I still wanted a dress. I didn’t want an off-white suit or casual Sunday dress. I didn’t want something labeled “mother-of-the-bride” in muted taupe with matching shoes.
I wanted a wedding dress.
I wanted something with lace, or maybe soft chiffon. I wanted something elegant but not flashy — a dress that made me feel… not younger, just radiant. Radiant in the way I imagined Henry would look at me when I walked toward him, smiling like he always did when I surprised him with lemon bars or wore a scarf he’d bought me.
So, one bright Tuesday morning, I stepped into a boutique I’d read about online. It had five stars, glowing reviews, and more than a few pictures of happy brides in floating ivory gowns.
Inside, it was quiet and delicate, romantic in every sense of the word. Soft piano music played somewhere in the background, and the air smelled faintly of peonies. The dresses looked like clouds hanging on silver rails. For a moment, I let myself feel the tingle of anticipation.
Two young consultants stood behind the front counter. One was tall with dark curls and sharp cheekbones. Her name tag said Jenna. The other, blonde and petite, wore shimmering lip gloss and impossibly long nails. Her tag read Kayla.
I approached them with a smile, adjusting the strap of my purse. I don’t know why, but I felt a sense of embarrassment surge through me.
“Good morning,” I said, trying to keep the nerves out of my voice. “I’d like to try on a few wedding dresses.”
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