When he proposed two years later—on a quiet trail at a state park, with sunlight filtering through bare branches and his grandmother’s ring trembling slightly in his fingers—I said yes before he finished the question.
Margaret’s response, when David called her, was crisp and cold.
“Congratulations,” she said. “I suppose we’ll need to start planning immediately. There’s so much Sarah will need to learn about how things are done in our world.”
I could practically hear her setting the chessboard.
Wedding planning became her battlefield. Every decision was an opportunity to remind me—gently, with pretty words and sharp edges—that the Thompsons did things differently.
The venue? The Thompsons didn’t do barns, even if the barn was renovated and charming and had chandeliers and a view of rolling hills.
The caterer? The Thompsons didn’t do buffet-style, even if the food was fantastic and the guests would be happier.
The flowers? The Thompsons didn’t do wildflowers, because wildflowers suggested someone who didn’t understand refinement.
David tried to be the bridge. He would pull me aside after a tense phone call and say, “We can do what we want. It’s our wedding.”
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.
“It’s tradition,” she said. “Besides, several of my friends would love to join us. They’ve known David since he was a child. Their opinion matters.”