My Mom Tried to Upstage Me in a Wedding Dress, But She Didn’t See This Coming (3 of 5)

Diane stepped out like royalty. Her dress sparkled with rhinestones. She wore a tiara and carried a bouquet—a bouquet, as if this were her second coming. My stepdad followed sheepishly, looking like he wanted to sink into the sidewalk.

She floated up the steps, only to stop cold at the door.

Dozens of heads turned. Dozens of smiles flickered.

Every woman in that room… wore white.

It was like a visual echo—her spectacle reflected back at her in twenty versions. And suddenly, she wasn’t centre stage. She was one of many. Ordinary. Blurred.

Diane’s mouth twitched. “What’s going on?” she hissed at Nora, who just sipped her water and said, “Looks like it’s a popular color today.”

And then, like a scene from a movie, the music swelled.

I stepped into the doorway.

My dress wasn’t white.

It was red.

Crimson velvet, gold embroidery, long sleeves that trailed like fire. No veil. No apologies. I walked down the aisle on my father’s arm, and the room—already stunned—erupted into a hush so thick, you could taste it.