In the weeks leading up to the wedding, Mom kept shifting the spotlight to Jane—her hairstyle, her shoes—gradually minimizing my presence at my own celebration.
Then the wedding day arrived.
Mom entered with Jane, who was wearing a white beaded gown. Not ivory. Not champagne. Bright, bridal white. “She didn’t have anything suitable,” Mom said. “Let her wear this. You have your dress.” I was stunned into silence. Jane said nothing in my defense. That silence hurt more than the dress ever could. Still, I wore my gown with pride and walked toward Richard filled only with love. Then came the toasts.
Jane took the microphone, her voice trembling. “Lizzie, I owe you an apology,” she began. “This dress wasn’t my choice. It was Mom’s. She said you’d outshine me. But the truth is, I’ve always wished I were more like you.” She quietly left the room, changed into a navy-blue gown, and returned to warm applause. For the first time, she chose me, too.
Later, Mom told me, “I just wanted Jane to feel special.” I replied, “You could’ve made us both feel special.” That night, I caught a glimpse of Jane laughing with one of Richard’s friends, glowing and at ease. Maybe now, we both get to shine—in our own way.
Because I didn’t wear that dress to stand above anyone.
I wore it to finally see myself. And I did.
