I never expected to cry over a dress. Not the good kind of cry, anyway. Growing up in a financially strapped household, clothes were about function, not flair. My mother worked at a school and brought home lunch leftovers to build up our food at home. My absentee father sent nothing but silence and disappointment through the mail. When he did make an appearance, he acted like he was doing us a favor. Shopping was a luxury we couldn’t afford, so most of my wardrobe came from church drives, thrift stores, or the occassional clearance rack at an off-discount store. When I got engaged, I knew there wouldn’t be a grand wedding or champagne-soaked reception. We planned to marry at the local justice of the peace, then have a potluck at the VFW post in Dedham, Massachusetts.
Still, something inside me longed for a beautiful dress. Not just any dress, but the dress—the one that made you feel like the world might pause for you, even for just a moment. I didn’t have the heart to tell anyone that I dreamed of lace, satin, or the rustle of tulle. I didn’t want to seem ungrateful. So I kept quiet, telling myself it wasn’t about the dress. It was about love. And it was. But I still felt the ache.
A week before the wedding, I found myself browsing the dress department at Macy's. I wasn't looking for anything special, but at the same time I was looking for something. After sifting through rack after rack of dresses of every design and style, I was prepared to leave empty-handed. I was on my lunch break and the hour was nearly up. The office was at least ten minutes away and if I didn't hurry, I would be late heading back. As I rounded a corner, heading for the escalator - I saw it. The dress! Not just any dress, a silver dress. It was long and satin and had a bit of a train in the back. It was perfect. I burst into tears.
Those weren’t tears of sorrow but of release. That dress wasn’t expensive. It wasn’t designer. But it held something sacred. It made space for my grief, for the father who wouldn’t walk me down the aisle, for the wedding we couldn’t afford, and the dreams I’d buried beneath practicality. That dress held all of it—and still managed to make me feel beautiful. Like I belonged to the joy of the day just as much as anyone else.
I wore that dress to the justice of the peace. I wore it while we danced under cheap twinkle lights at the VFW, eating salad, grilled chicken and the frosting off a huge cake a guest had made as a gift. I laughed with family and friends. People oogled the dress. I felt like a princess who had married her prince. Despite the lackluster affair, it was the best day ever.
I still have the dress. It hangs in my closet. When I look at the dress, it reminds me that despite my meager means, I was able to buy the perfect wedding dress and have the best day of my life.
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