Mother Wears White to Daughter’s Wedding — But the Bride Has the Perfect Response

The rest of the day was a beautiful blur. I danced. I laughed. I celebrated. I noticed the whispers, the sideways glances directed her way, but I pretended not to. Let them talk. I held my head high. I was the bride. I was happy. And I had handled it with a dignity she could never hope to emulate. My triumph felt sweet, if a little hollow around the edges.

Weeks later, the dust settled. We were back from our honeymoon. I was unpacking some old boxes, finding things from my childhood. Tucked away in a photo album I’d never seen, deep beneath layers of forgotten memories, I found it. An old, faded photograph. A young woman, my mother, but younger, so much younger, radiant in a white dress, strikingly similar to the one she wore to my wedding. She was holding a tiny, intricately embroidered baby gown. And on the back of the photo, in her shaky handwriting, were three words: “My lost angel.”

My heart fell to my stomach. My hands trembled. Lost angel? I called my aunt, my mother’s sister, someone I hadn’t spoken to in years. Her voice was quiet, almost a whisper, as she filled in the blanks. There had been another child. Before me. A daughter. Born prematurely. She died an hour later. The due date, my aunt explained, was my wedding day. And that white dress in the photo? IT WAS THE DRESS MY MOTHER HAD BOUGHT FOR HER OWN WEDDING, WHICH WAS CANCELLED DAYS BEFORE THE BABY WAS DUE, BECAUSE THE FATHER LEFT HER. She wore it that day, holding the gown for the child she lost, the day her future shattered.

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