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Some weddings are remembered for flowers or vows. Ours will always be remembered for who wasn’t there—my fiancé’s mother.
Kael and I, both in our late twenties, had saved every penny for our day. But his mother, Seraphine, tried to seize control from the start—arguing over the guest list, colors, cake, even demanding a grand entrance and her own theme song. Her obsession wasn’t about celebrating us; she wanted the spotlight.
The breaking point came when she demanded to spend the night before the wedding in the bridal suite with Kael, calling it her “last night with her son.” We refused. The next evening, I walked into the suite and froze—my dress was shredded, lace and silk torn apart. Seconds later, a text arrived: “Now maybe he’ll see who really matters.”
Kael immediately banned her from the wedding. That night, my aunt brought me a gown from her old bridal shop. It fit perfectly—our miracle.
Seraphine never showed. Instead of chaos, we had laughter, music, and love. My new dress became a symbol: she tried to ruin our wedding, but gave us clarity, strength, and freedom instead.
