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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