Last year at 59, I met Richard while struggling with grocery bags.
He offered to help. He was a widower. One thing led to another, and two months ago, he proposed.
For the first time since my twenties, I felt truly loved. For years, I’d been alone—raising my son as a single mom, working two jobs just to give him a decent life.
Now my son is grown, graduated, has a good job, and is married. I felt like I could finally live for myself.
So, Richard and I decided to have a small wedding with just close friends and family. I knew exactly what I wanted: I wanted to sew a PINK wedding dress myself.
Why pink? Because my entire wardrobe (and honestly, my whole life) had been dull. A pink dress, for me, symbolized freedom, love, and a new beginning.
Of course, I invited my son and my DIL, Emily. I thought they’d be happy for me.
But when Emily saw me in the dress, she burst out laughing.
“OH MY GOD. ARE YOU SERIOUS? YOU LOOK LIKE A FIVE-YEAR-OLD PLAYING DRESS-UP. PINK? FOR A WEDDING? AT SIXTY? HONESTLY, IT’S PATHETIC.”
Whispers started around the room. My cheeks burned.
Then she leaned toward me and hissed, “YOU’RE EMBARRASSING YOUR OWN SON. IMAGINE HIS FRIENDS SEEING HIS MOTHER DRESSED LIKE THIS.”
I wanted to disappear.
But before I could say a word, my son stood up. He tapped his glass and cleared his throat.
“Everyone, may I have your attention?”
The room went silent. Emily’s smirk widened; she thought he was about to agree with her.
He said, “NOW, TURN YOUR HEADS TO MY MOM
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