But Margaret had a way of making you feel like resisting her would create a mess you’d have to clean up later. She didn’t demand. She implied. She sighed. She said things like, “Of course you’re free to choose… but people will notice.”
I kept reminding myself: I was marrying David, not his mother.
And if I’m honest, there was a part of me that wanted to prove her wrong. Not by becoming her idea of worthy, but by staying myself and not breaking under her scrutiny.
The closer we got to the wedding, the more Margaret circled around one topic like a shark.
The dress.
“Thompson women choose their gowns at Maison Lavigne,” she announced over Sunday brunch at her home, as if that settled it. “The salon has been dressing society brides for generations.”
I smiled politely. “That sounds lovely.”
“It is,” she said, and her eyes slid over me, assessing. “They’ll know what flatters you.”
Flatters you. The way she said it suggested I was a difficult piece of furniture.
When I suggested keeping the dress shopping small—just me, my mom, and maybe David’s sister—Margaret’s smile sharpened.