I said yes without hesitation.
We planned a small wedding at the local hall—good food, soft music, people who mattered. And I knew immediately what I wanted to wear.
Pink.
Not loud. Not flashy. Soft blush. Warm. Gentle. Mine.
I found discounted satin and lace, my hands trembling as I touched it. I almost put it back. Stood there arguing with myself like a rebellious child. But I bought it. Walked out clutching the fabric like a promise.
I sewed every night for weeks. The house quiet, the machine humming, old melodies returning to my lips. The dress wasn’t perfect—but it was honest. Every stitch carried a piece of my life.
When Wells and Catalina visited, I proudly showed it to them.
Catalina laughed.
“Seriously?” she said. “Pink? At your age? You look like a kid playing dress-up.”
I tried to stay calm. “It makes me happy.”
