A white dress and a big white wedding. That’s what my mother wanted. I, on the other hand, had a different opinion.

The big day had been approaching quickly. I spent months planning and organizing everything, and it was almost ready. The planning had gone as smooth as sailing, but there was one thing left to do. Find a dress.

My mother and I argued for days, weeks. I told her I wanted something simple, something different. She had another idea. We agreed on everything else, but for this, our opinions were as different as peanut butter and jelly. She never wanted to hear what I had to say about it. In her mind, I was going to wear a basic white gown, nothing special or “absurd” in her eyes. Sometimes when we were arguing, I could feel words coming up, words that I knew I shouldn’t say, but they built up like lava in a volcano. I would almost explode. Almost, but I would hold my breath and let it settle back down.

The day finally came for me to find a dress. Walking into the shop, I was astonished by all the options. The light reflecting off all the white gowns was almost blinding, like when the sun shines so brightly that you must squint your eyes. The room smelled like expensive perfume, and right away I knew that this was going to be difficult.

There were dresses covered with white beading, intricately placed like the seeds of a strawberry. Dresses made of silk as smooth as the hands of a newborn. Lace dresses as delicate looking as the web of a spider. Some dresses had big skirts that puffed out to make the bride feel like a princess. Others were made slim and tight, meant to show off every curve.

Every dress was beautiful, but none of them spoke to me. All of them seemed very verbal to my mother, though. She picked out dresses of every style for me to try on. I’d slide the dress on and look at myself in the mirror, unsatisfied. While my mother would be almost in tears with every gown, I wasn’t feeling the same. I couldn’t find that feeling.

We must have been in that shop for hours. My head was starting to hurt, and I was beginning to give up. Hopelessly, I scanned the shop once more. This time, something caught my eye. Something different. A dress like no other. How had I not seen this before? It practically called out my name.

I rushed over to carefully pull it off the rack, only to meet my mother’s judgmental stare. She folded her arms.

I ignored her and ran back to the fitting room. I slipped on the dress, careful not to tear even the tiniest thread. I looked in the mirror. This was the most beautiful dress I had ever seen. An A-line gown fitted perfectly to my figure. Long lace sleeves hung off my shoulder. Rhinestone gems were sewn perfectly around the sweetheart neckline. Around my waist was a thin band of silver, and on my right hip were three white flowers.

Seeing myself in this, I had the feeling. It came up from my stomach. It warmed my chest and neck. It came over my whole body. This was the dress. My dress. Seeing the tears now streaming down my mother’s face, I think she finally agreed.

Now, in my attic, surrounded by my grandchildren, I see my dress again, for the first time in thirty years. It’s still as pristine as it was on the day that I first found it. Perfect.

I see my grandson look at me, curiously.  His blue eyes, wide. “Grandma,” he starts, “Why is it pink?”