Tears Beneath the Wedding Dress
Emily stood before the mirror and barely recognized herself. The ivory gown had transformed her into a stranger—elegant, adorned, yet utterly foreign. Her mother bustled nearby, smoothing the skirt and murmuring about the joy of the occasion.
“Darling, why the long face?” Mary fretted, noticing her daughter’s expression. “This is the happiest day of your life!”
“Oh, Mummy, I’m fine,” Emily replied with a strained smile. “Just a bit nervous.”
But the nerves weren’t the ones her mother expected. A heavy, bitter ache churned in Emily’s chest. She couldn’t forget yesterday’s conversation with Andrew, which had upended her world.
They sat in his one-bedroom flat, he brewing tea, she twirling the guest list in her hands.
“Don’t we need to invite Katherine?” Andrew asked abruptly, not turning from the stove.
“Which Katherine?” Emily frowned.
“You know, Katherine Vladimirova, your workmate. The one who’s always knocking on our door.”
Katherine had been her dearest friend for over a decade, since university. A bit forward, yes, but was that reason to exclude her from this day?
“Andrew, she’s my best friend. How could I not invite her?”
“Please, just drop it,” he dismissed, placing a mug in front of her. “She’s always interfering. Remember when she told you to break it off with me after that argument last year?”
“She was just worried,” Emily defended. “And we reconciled.”
“Exactly. And she’s still giving me the cold shoulder. I don’t want people on our wedding day who oppose our marriage.”
Emily set the mug down, untouched. “Katherine has been my friend for years. She knows all my secrets, all my exes…”
“Right,” he cut in. “She knows your past boyfriends. And probably thinks one of them was better than me.”
“No! Where would you get that idea?” she blurted.
Andrew sat across from her, taking her hands. “Em, just call her. Say the wedding’s off.”
“Very sensible of you,” he beamed, kissing her forehead. “See, without her, it’ll be much better.”
Now, in her wedding dress, Emily remembered Katherine’s face when the call came. The shock, the confusion, then sudden tears.
“Emily, we’d planned everything… I even bought my dress, my gift…”
“Katie, I’m sorry. We wanted an intimate ceremony, only family and—”
“But I’m your closest friend!” Katherine had cried. “This is Andrew, isn’t it? He never liked me.”
“Not at all!” Emily fibbed. “This is a mutual decision.”
Katherine paused, then whispered, “Maybe it’s for the best. I couldn’t have been happy watching you marry someone who doesn’t cherish you.”
“What are you talking about?” Emily bristled.
“That he’s changed you, Em. You used to be vibrant, bold. Now, you’re afraid to speak up for fear of upsetting him. When was the last time you did something you truly wanted, not what he wanted?”
The question stuck.
Andrew noticed her puffy eyes at dawn. “There. See how she upset you? I told you without her, it’d be better.”
“Emily, love, what are you doing?” her mother’s voice cut through the memory. “Guests are arriving, and you’re still by the mirror.”
“Coming, Mummy.”
She took the bouquet—roses, Andrew’s choice. She’d dreamed of peonies, but he said roses were “classy.”
The hall held forty guests—Andrew’s colleagues, distant relatives, a few workmates of hers, but not Katherine. That absence pressed heavier than the silk train at her feet.
Andrew met her at the aisle, smiling in the tailored suit they “selected together.” Selected by him, as she’d agreed.
“Beautiful,” he whispered. “How cozy it is without all the extra people.”
Emily nodded, forcing a smile. The registrar’s words blurred. She answered “I do” without hearing. Thoughts of Katherine’s warning circled: *When was the last time you did what you wanted?*
“Emily Jones, do you take Andrew Thompson as your lawful husband?” the registrar asked.
She looked up at his possessive gaze and whispered, “I do,” as if signing a contract for a future she barely understood.
Rings, kisses, applause. Her mother wept, his mother dabbed her eyes. The photographer snapped, the guests cheered, but Katherine’s voice echoed in Emily’s mind.
At the reception, she smiled beside “husband”—a word that tasted wrong. Andrew raised toast after toast, spinning a tale of their meeting at the gym. She’d enjoyed his attention then, a tall, confident man.
He’d forgotten to mention how he’d begun interrogating her within days, checking her phone, narrowing her circle to his friends.
“Emily, remember when you first came to our home?” Andrew’s mother chimed in. “So shy, barely spoke a word.”
“Yes,” Emily smiled, recalling how he’d warned her not to mention her marketing job—his mother disdained “unconventional” careers—or her rented flat—his parents insisted a proper woman lived with hers until marriage.
“Isn’t she a beauty now?” his mother gushed. “Andrew brought out her *true* self.”
*Or buried it*, Emily thought, squelching the thought.
The evening stretched on. Dances, games, toasts. She almost fled to the loo, but Andrew held her back each time.
“Where are you going? The host is about to start the next game!”
“Ladies and gentlemen!” the host boomed. “A test for the newlyweds! Find your answers by lifting your partner’s shoe!”
Emily dreaded it. Seated back to back, each with a shoe—hers, his.
“Who’s more possessive?”
She lifted his shoe; he lifted his own. Giggles erupted.
“Who gives in more?”
She lifted hers; he followed. Laughter again.
“Who is the head of the household?”
Her hand hovered. She should lift his shoe—everyone expected it. But the question pricked.
She lifted his; he did the same. The room erupted. “Perfect harmony!” the host cried.
Andrew squeezed her arm. “Smart choice.”
Then, in that moment of praise, Emily shattered. She excused herself, locking herself in a cubicle, letting tears streak her make-up.
What had she done? Married a man who claimed her as his. Who prided himself on “correct” answers to marriage. Who kept her best friend away.
The door creaked. “Emily? You in there?” It was Irene, a coworker.
“Yes,” she sniffled.
Irene gasped as Emily emerged. “What’s wrong? You’re crying!”
“Em, are you sure about this? You love him?” Irene asked gently.
Emily didn’t answer.
“Your husband let you see friends?”
Emily fell silent.
“Emily, if you’re doubting—maybe it’s not too late?”
“Too late,” she whispered.
The door burst open. Her mother peered in, spotting her tear-streaked face.
“What’s wrong, love? Why are you crying?”
“Happy tears, Mummy,” she lied.
Her mother sighed in relief, fixing her make-up. “You’ve such a fine man now. Generous, stable.”
“Right, Mummy.”
Irene left with a quiet, “Call me if you need.”
The rest of the evening blurred. She danced, cut the cake, tossed the bouquet. Every moment felt rehearsed.
Later, alone with Andrew, he clasped her. “Perfect day, wasn’t it? No distractions.”
Emily nodded. “Tomorrow, our new life starts. You’ve waited so long.”
*“My wife,”* he’d said. Not “our marriage,” but *his* possession.
She closed her eyes, picturing Katherine. Still crying? Or thanking the stars she’d missed this farce?
Maybe Katherine was right. Love shouldn’t demand such sacrifices.
But now, the ring on her finger, the stamp in her passport—too late. She was Mrs. Andrew Thompson now.
The tears came again, hidden beneath the dress. They’d remain, a memory of the day she chose safety over joy, his will over hers.
And of the one friend who’d tried to stop it—all kept behind a closed door, never invited.