“Oh, thank goodness, that’s wonderful.” She sounds over-relieved. “Could you swing by the house before then? I’d like to discuss something with you.”
“Can’t you, err… tell me on the phone?”
“No, this is more of an in-person type of conversation.”
Oh, gosh. The last thing I want is a heart-to-heart with my mother-in-law. But I’m also the worst at thinking on my feet when under pressure. So when I cannot find a plausible excuse not to go in the next three seconds, I spit out a reluctant, “Sure.”
“Fantastic, come over as soon as possible.”
She hangs up before I can ask what’s the urgency.
I stare at my phone. A creeping unease settles in my gut, but I push it down. Margaret is enthusiastic. She’s been wanting to do more family activities since the dinner, but between work, my parents’ visit then Emma’s we haven’t had the chance.
I dry my hair, pull on jeans and a sweater, and drive to the in-laws’. No point in delaying. If I stay home, I’ll spend the morning wondering what she wants with me. Plus, if I go right away, I’ll be back before Liam returns, and we can finally have a moment alone.
But when I get to Liam’s parents’ house, the nagging in my gut that something is wrong spikes. The first sign of trouble is the fleet of white vans parked along the circular driveway.
The second issue is the floral arrangements over-flooding the patio and being carried into the house by two men in white uniforms.
My hands grow cold on the steering wheel.
I park and walk toward the house on numb legs. The front door is propped open. Inside, the foyer has been transformed. Peach, pink, and burnt-orange roses cascade from every surface, their sweetness thickening the air. Candles line the staircase. A towering cake is parked on the dining room table, five tiers of pristine fondant crowned with sugar flowers.
I’ve already seen this show. I’ve lived inside it. The flowers, the candles, the cake—all of it beautiful, all of it decided without me.
A maid comes to take my jacket, making me feel even more underdressed in my casual clothes without my outer layers.Especially as Margaret appears in a floor-length emerald-green velvet gown, her hair blown out, diamond studs in her ears.
“There she is!” She rushes forward and clasps my hands.
“Hi, Margaret.” I give her a perfunctory hug. “Are you… um… having a party?”
“Oh, darling, the party is for you. Since you and Liam didn’t have a proper ceremony, I’ve arranged a vow renewal to celebrate. Took me over a month to organize everything.”
Ah, that’s why she’s been so quiet. Lure us into a false sense of security and then spring an ambush wedding on us.
“But don’t worry,” she continues. “It’s nothing extravagant; I’ve only invited family, a few friends, and the pastor.”
Nothing extravagant. Right. Just a casual string quartet, a five-tier cake, and an event planner with a headset barking orders at a team of florists.
“And—” Margaret’s eyes sparkle. “I had a dress made for you.”
She means well, I know she does. She’s giving me a gift. But all I can hear is the front door swinging shut behind me, trapping me in. I’m too shocked to even protest as she leads me deeper inside the house to a guest bedroom on the ground floor.
The room has a queen bed, a dresser with a mirror, and a wedding gown in a clear garment bag hanging from the closet door.
It’s a sleeveless A-line gown crafted from layers of soft, flowing tulle in a neutral champagne tone. The bodice has a deep V-neckline trimmed with a cascade of rose appliqués in warm shades of apricot, peach, and soft terracotta that cluster at the waist and trail down the length of the skirt. It’s ethereal and harvest-chic. Perfect for a fall wedding.
Less stiff than the gown Matt’s mother convinced me to pick, much more to my taste. But I don’t want to put it on.
Not because it isn’t beautiful. But because I didn’t choose it. Because I wasn’t asked. Because this is how it started before—one decision made for me, then another, then another, until I was standing in a church in a dress I didn’t pick, holding flowers I didn’t want, about to marry a man I was terrified of, and every single element of that day had been chosen by someone else while I smiled and said thank you.
“Do you like it?” Liam’s mom asks.
“Margaret, I— The dress is gorgeous,” I say, because it is. “This is so generous, but I don’t think?—”
“Nonsense.” She waves a hand. “Every bride deserves her moment. The hair and makeup team is on the way. We have two hours before the ceremony starts.”
She leaves before I can protest, closing the door behind her. I almost expect to hear the lock click, but of course it doesn’t.
