I’m Beatrix, and at 60, I finally felt like I was living on my own terms. After years of scraping by, raising my son alone, and shrinking myself to survive an unkind marriage, I was ready to begin again. When I became engaged to Quentin—a gentle man I met in a grocery store parking lot—I decided to sew my own wedding dress. Not white. Not beige. Pink—the color I’d always loved but was never allowed to wear.
I spent weeks stitching that dress, letting each seam unwind old fears left behind by my ex-husband, who had once banned bright colors and joy from my life. When it was finished, I proudly showed it to my son, Lachlan, and his wife, Jocelyn. Before Lachlan could speak, Jocelyn laughed.
“Pink? At your age?” she sneered. “You look like you’re trying to be a teenager.”
Her words stung, but I held my ground. “It makes me happy,” I said. “That’s enough.”
On the wedding day, guests complimented my dress, and for the first time in decades, I felt radiant. Then Jocelyn arrived, glanced at me, and loudly mocked me again—calling me a “cupcake” in front of the room.
Before I could respond, Lachlan stepped between us.
“Stop,” he said, his voice steady and firm. “My mother raised me alone. She taught herself to sew because we had nothing. She made that dress by hand. And she finally gets to wear the color she loves. Show her some respect.”
The room fell silent. Jocelyn backed away, embarrassed. I cried—not from shame, but from relief. Someone was finally standing up for me.
The ceremony that followed was simple and full of love. I married Quentin in the pink dress that symbolized everything I’d reclaimed.
I wasn’t childish.
I wasn’t foolish.
I was finally free—
and I wore pink because I chose to.