When Raj and I got engaged, I felt like the luckiest person alive. I’d known from our first few dates that he was kind in a way that felt rare, and genuinely thoughtful. He had this calm, unshakeable patience that made everyone around him feel like they mattered.

Introducing Raj to my family felt natural, like bringing home a piece of my heart. My parents were instantly taken by his gentle humor, and my younger cousins gravitated to him as if he’d always been around. My mother especially adored him, and they clicked right away.

“It’s a shame you’re not actually my son,” she’d joke, “because clearly, you inherited my taste.” Raj laughed, but I could see how much those words meant to him. It was as though he was getting the motherly approval he’d missed for so long.

Seeing him so at ease with my family warmed my heart. My mother, who had always been an enthusiastic planner, offered to help organize the wedding, and Raj was delighted to jump in. He had so many ideas about the ceremony, from the flowers to the food to the music.

Raj’s excitement was contagious, and soon, my mother was throwing out ideas that I’d never thought she’d be into, like him making a grand entrance on horseback.

To be honest, I didn’t care much about the details of the wedding. My only wish was to be with Raj. I’d have married him in a courthouse if it came down to it, but seeing him so happy made me grateful for my family’s involvement. I knew this was special for him. Yet, as much as Raj and my family loved planning, there was one person who seemed set on complicating things—his mother.

Raj had hinted at his strained relationship with her, but only when she began inserting herself into our wedding planning did I start to see the full picture.

She called often, offering her own “advice” and, unsurprisingly, dismissing any ideas related to traditional Indian customs. She’d say things like, “Why don’t you keep it simple?” or “It should be about you two, not all these extras.” After a while, though, she seemed to lose interest and stopped calling, which I hoped would be the end of it.

But then, a week later, Raj’s mother called me with a single question: “Would you mind if I wore white to the wedding?”

I didn’t even hesitate. It seemed innocent enough, and after all, I wouldn’t be wearing white myself. My saree would be a rich red with intricate embroidery—a celebration of tradition, vibrant and unmistakably bridal.

“Of course, you can wear white,” I replied casually. I imagined she might choose a conservative white dress or something simple, and honestly, I didn’t think it would make much of a difference.

Later that evening, as we were finishing up a late dinner, I mentioned the conversation to Raj. I expected him to laugh it off, maybe even be a little relieved that his mother had chosen to keep things low-key. But instead, his face fell, and his expression turned to one of frustration and, I realized, hurt.

“She asked you if she could wear white?” he asked, voice low. I nodded, surprised at his reaction.

“Raj, I just didn’t see the harm,” I began, but he shook his head.

As Raj sat across from me, the weight of his memories seemed to settle over his shoulders, pulling his gaze down to the table. I reached out, squeezing his hand, willing him to look up and share whatever he needed to let go of.

He sighed, eyes flickering with a mix of anger and resignation. “You know, Piya, this thing with the white dress isn’t just about her wanting attention on our wedding day. She’s… she’s done things like this my whole life.” He ran a hand over his face, pausing as if he was piecing together years of buried frustration. “I think the first time I really understood it was on my tenth birthday.”

I stayed silent, giving him space to continue. He took a shaky breath.

“She demanded I give her a gift. Said I wouldn’t exist if it weren’t for her, that my birthdays were as much her day as they were mine. So, every year, I’d have to thank her, give her something—some token of ‘appreciation.’ It made me hate my own birthday.”

For a moment, we both sat there, letting the silence settle around us. I gently ran my thumb across his knuckles, grounding him, trying to remind him that he wasn’t alone anymore.

“It’s just… exhausting, Piya,” he murmured, looking up at me finally. “And this wedding—our wedding—feels like the first time I’ll finally have a day that’s mine. Ours.”

I squeezed his hand, feeling the strength of his words. “It is ours, Raj. This day is for you and me, and no one can take that away.”

He took a deep breath, nodding, but a shadow still lingered. “Then why can’t we just tell her not to wear white?” he asked, his voice tinged with both frustration and a quiet, almost childlike hope. “Just this once, I want her to understand that this isn’t about her.”

I looked into his eyes, trying to convey my own resolve. “Trust me, Raj,” I whispered. “Trust that the day will be perfect, with you and me at the center. Whatever she wears, it won’t matter. Just focus on us, on everything we’ve worked toward. You’ll see.”

He studied me, searching for something in my eyes, and finally let out a long, heavy sigh. “Alright,” he said, sounding unconvinced but willing to try. “I’ll… I’ll try to let it go.”

I knew that Raj’s mother was in for a huge surprise.

When Raj’s mother swept into the ceremony, her presence was impossible to ignore. She’d chosen an elaborate gown so bridal it could’ve easily been mistaken for one. Layers of white satin cascaded around her, each sequin catching the light and amplifying her entrance.

The heavy, trailing skirt, though, quickly became a burden. She struggled to navigate the traditional Indian setup, her dress snagging on decorations and making it difficult for her to sit comfortably. She desperately tried to maintain her grand appearance, painfully out of place amid the vibrant colors and intricate silks surrounding us.

By contrast, my own richly woven red and gold saree adorned with delicate embroidery exuded the depth of tradition.

My dress was both subtle and powerful, its intricate designs telling stories of heritage and love, while Raj’s mother’s gown seemed to demand attention, loudly and insistently. I could sense Raj’s tension beside me, his hand tightening as he took in the scene.

However, she was not done with trying to steal the spotlight.

As we stood under the mandap, just as the priest began the opening blessing, Raj’s mother leaned in close to my aunt, speaking loudly enough to pierce the serene atmosphere. “Oh, I must tell you about Raj when he was little,” she said, her voice lilting with laughter. “He was always such a sensitive boy—cried all afternoon over a toy car once!”

Raj forced a polite smile, but I could feel his hand tense in mine. I gave it a reassuring squeeze, silently reminding him to stay focused on us. My aunt managed a polite nod, gracefully guiding Raj’s mother back to her seat. But she was far from finished.

Moments later, just as a friend of mine began sharing a sweet memory from our college days, Raj’s mother chimed in, speaking over her without a second thought. “Oh, and when Raj was in high school, he had this hilarious habit of wearing mismatched socks!” She laughed, completely unaware of how her interruption filled the air with tension.

Finally, as we stood side by side, ready to exchange our vows, Raj’s mother leaned over again, her voice carrying a bit too loudly as she whispered to someone in the row beside her.

She commented on how Raj’s dress choice “wasn’t quite what she would have chosen.” Her voice cut through the air, distracting just as I held Raj’s hand, ready to exchange promises that had been in our hearts long before today.

At that exact moment, my five-year-old niece, who was standing beside me with her own small bouquet, turned toward her and spoke up, unfiltered and innocent. “Don’t you know it’s rude to talk during weddings?” Her big eyes blinked up at Raj’s mother with an earnestness that was as startling as it was true.

There was a hush, followed by quiet laughter from a few guests. Raj’s mother froze, her face reddening as she looked around, uncharacteristically lost for words. I felt Raj’s hand relax in mine, his shoulders finally easing as he took a steadying breath. I could tell he felt that moment of relief, this tiny but powerful boundary my niece had drawn without even realizing it.

For the rest of the ceremony, my mother-in-law sat quietly, her grand gown still and silent. As we moved through the sacred rituals, I could feel Raj finally relaxing beside me, his eyes focused on the vows, the blessings, and all the moments that truly mattered.