I’m Beatrix, 60, and for the first time in decades, I felt like I was living for myself. After years of surviving, raising my son Lachlan alone, and stitching together my life, I was ready to start fresh — including sewing my own pink wedding dress, a color I’d secretly loved but never allowed myself to wear.
When I showed the dress to my son and his wife, Jocelyn, she mocked me. “Pink? At your age?” she sneered. I held my head high. “It makes me happy. That’s enough,” I said, but her words stung.
The day of the wedding, she mocked me again in front of the guests. But this time, Lachlan stepped forward. “Enough,” he said. “This is my mother’s day. She raised me alone, sacrificed everything, and made that dress herself. You will show her respect.”
The room went quiet. Jocelyn’s smirk faded. I cried — tears of relief and pride. For the first time, someone defended me publicly, acknowledging that I deserved joy.
That day, standing beside Quentin in my pink dress, I felt radiant, brave, and fully myself. I wasn’t ridiculous or childish. I was starting over — and finally, I could wear pink.