My husband hasn’t spoken to me since the wedding. And all because of a dress. Not just any dress, but my mother-in-law’s cursed dress.
My name is Violet. I’m 33 years old, I’m a clothing designer, and less than a week ago I married Paul, the man I love, but who doesn’t seem to understand me at all. Let me explain…
From the first day we met, I knew that Margaret, his mother, my MIL, was an intense presence in his life. Her husband had died in a terrible accident years ago, and since then her world had become her son’s. Paul was always affectionate with her, and I tried to be the same.
Really, I did my part: I was kind, considerate, even when she crossed certain boundaries. I tried very hard to understand her because I know she’s had a very difficult life. It wasn’t easy, but it was all reasonably tolerable…until Paul asked me to marry him.
From that point on, Margaret…went off the rails. No exaggeration!
I wanted to have her dream wedding… and so did my MIL.
From the moment she found out about the proposal and the wedding, my MIL became involved in every detail of the wedding: the guests, the flowers, the menu, even the color of the napkins! And when I tried to set boundaries, Paul would tell me, ‘I’m her only son. This is the only time she’s going to experience this. It all reminds her of when she married my dad…understand her. She’s been through a lot… Blah, blah, blah.’
I put up with it. I did my best to take it all in.
And then came the subject of the dress. The blessed dress.
I had already designed mine. It was literally the dress of my dreams: elegant, modern, ethereal, with details that represented me. My heart was in this design. It was my work. My true masterpiece.
But my MIL Margaret had another plan: for me to wear her family’s wedding dress. A piece from the 1800s that looked like something out of a Victorian nightmare. Puffed sleeves, high neckline, yellow lace from the passage of time, the smell… oh, God, the smell…
Horrible. Seriously, and it’s not that it was ‘not my style’. It was objectively ugly and unpleasant no matter how you looked at it.
And that’s when the drama started.
I decided it was time to set some boundaries, but not everyone agreed.
Margaret told me it was a tradition. That all the women in her family had been married in this dress. That her ‘daughter’ (that would be me) would wear it. And then her granddaughter would wear it, and her great-granddaughter, and so on until the end of time.
She cried. She hugged me. She said it was the greatest honour of her life.
I was humiliated. I didn’t know what to do! I told her ‘No’ as gently as I could, that I appreciated the gesture, that I really did. I had already designed mine, so I told her that I wouldn’t be wearing her dress. And that it was my, MY wedding.
And then, of course, came the emotional offense. She was offended, of course. Fuss, uncontrolled crying, a tantrum worse than a toddler’s. Paul reproached me for not giving in to something so ‘minimal.’ He said I didn’t know how to live with the family. This dress meant a lot to his mother.
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. I felt like I was in a parallel reality. But I decided not to give in. I had already indulged Margaret too much in everything. Enough was enough.
An unexpected visit that seemed innocent at first… only at first.
But the day before the wedding, Margaret, whom I had not spoken to since the dress incident, came to my house with a large bag.
‘I have brought you the dress,’ she said, as if she were bringing me a present. I barely resisted the urge to laugh. I rolled my eyes, told myself the poor woman had lost her mind and sighed.
‘I won’t wear it, Margaret.’
‘Just… keep it. It won’t cost you anything. At least think about it, try it on. You might change your mind.’
I really didn’t have the energy to argue. So I said yes, just to calm her down and go. I didn’t need any more stress, especially on the day before my wedding.
‘Where do I keep it?’ she asked.
‘Leave it in the bedroom cupboard,’ I reluctantly replied. I didn’t want to bother with it anymore.
She stayed in my room for a while, but I didn’t think anything of it. When she left, she greeted me with a downcast look and left rather quickly. I was very grateful. I was tired by then. I thought nothing worse could happen.
But boy was I wrong.
That night, when she left, I went to the wardrobe to get my dress for the next day… and that’s when my nightmare began.
I found my dress stained. With liquid foundation. From my dresser. Strategic, big, obvious stains. It wasn’t a figment of my imagination. It clearly hadn’t been an accident. It had been sabotaged. And next to it, hanging carefully, was Margaret’s dress. As if he was looking at me and saying ‘Ha ha, now you have no choice.’
I screamed. I screamed loudly. I threw myself on the floor. I called Paul but he didn’t answer. I was devastated. I had worked on that dress for months. It was my creation, my identity, my symbol.
And then something inside me broke. Or activated. A vengeful part I didn’t know.
Heartbroken and angry, I did something that changed the course of things and my wedding completely.
So I made a decision. I wiped away my tears, grabbed a pair of scissors and stared at the 1800s dress. I wasn’t going to save mine. I wanted to destroy hers. But not burn it. Not tear it to shreds. I wanted to redesign it.
I stayed up all night. I cut lace. I changed the sleeves. I added tulle, ruffles, glitter. I made it like a baroque nightmare. I made it so ridiculous, so over the top, that it looked like a perverse version of a Disney princess dress. And I wore it.
I put it on, I put on my make-up, and I went to church with my head held high.
And as soon as I walked in, I heard the scream. ‘What have you done to MY dress?!!!!!’ Margaret screamed from the front pew. People turning. Murmurs. Paul looked at me as if he didn’t know me. I smiled. I walked down the aisle as if it were the most prestigious catwalk in the world.
When the ceremony was over, Margaret pounced on me. She pushed me! She shouted at me, ‘You have ruined my legacy! You have disgraced my family!’
I calmly replied, ‘I only saved it. That dress was a curse. At least now no woman will have to wear it. I have done them a favor.’
She was taken away screaming. They literally dragged her away. And Paul? Paul looked at me as if I were a monster. He told me that I’d embarrassed him. That I had humiliated his mother. I told him the truth. I told him about the make-up, about the sabotage. But he didn’t believe me, of course. He told me I was cruel. And he never spoke to me again.
The party was a disaster. Me alone, between awkward glances. He, sitting with his friends, mute.
And now I’m on my honeymoon…silently. Not knowing if I married the right man. Not knowing if I went too far. With the bitter taste of a revenge that, at the time, made me feel strong… but now I don’t know.
Am I the villain? Or just a woman who stood up for her right to marry the way she wanted? Was what I did wrong? Or was it right to stand my ground, to set boundaries?
Source: brightside.me