“It’s not your fault,” I said, and meant it. “But I’m not doing that again.”
David tilted his head. “What do you mean?”
I hesitated, then said, “I found a dress. Not there. Somewhere else.”
His expression softened. “Do you love it?”
“Yes,” I said, and the word came out like air after holding my breath too long. “I feel like me in it.”
“Then that’s the dress,” David said simply.
Two weeks later, Margaret called an “emergency meeting” at her home.
David and I arrived to find her in the sunroom, surrounded by wedding magazines, swatches, and sample table settings like a general preparing for battle.
She didn’t bother with greeting.
“Sarah,” she began. “I’ve heard concerning rumors that you purchased a wedding dress without proper consultation. Some off-the-rack item from a boutique in your hometown.”
I took a deep breath. “I did find my dress.”
Margaret’s perfectly manicured hand fluttered to her throat. “But we haven’t approved anything.”
David finally spoke, his voice steady. “Mom. It’s Sarah’s dress.”