You won’t believe what Anita did now,” I said as soon as she picked up. “What happened?” Linda’s voice was a comforting anchor. “She sent me a dress to wear to the wedding. A white dress! Can you imagine?” I paced around my living room, my voice rising with every word. “Hmm,” Linda said thoughtfully. “It could be a setup. Or it could be a misunderstanding. Maybe you should talk to her?” I feared Margaret would never accept me, always seeing me as the woman who took her son away. The thought of planning a wedding with her scrutinizing every detail was daunting. For my own sanity, I had to exclude her. “Talk to her?” I echoed. The very idea made me break out in a cold sweat. But Linda had a point. The next day, I found myself sitting across from Anita in a quaint little café. I could barely sip my coffee; my hands were trembling too much. Anita looked composed as ever, a serene smile on her face. “You don’t like the dress?” Anita asked, her brow wrinkling. “It’s a lovely dress, I just don’t understand why you want me to wear a white dress to your wedding,” I replied. She leaned in, her eyes earnest. “This wedding is about family coming together and I wanted to honor you, Margaret. That’s why I chose the dress. It’s important to me that you wear it.” I stared at her, trying to find any hint of deception. But all I saw was sincerity. Could she really mean it? Her words stayed with me as I left the café. I wasn’t entirely convinced, but we were going to be family now. Maybe it was time I gave her a little grace. The day of the wedding, my anxiety was through the roof. I stood before the mirror, the white dress clinging to my body. My hands were trembling again, and I could almost hear the whispers of the guests, judging me. “Who does she think she is, wearing white to her son’s wedding?” The drive to the wedding venue felt like an eternity. My thoughts raced, each one louder than the last. Had Anita tricked me? Would people laugh at me? Judge me? My fingers clutched the steering wheel so tightly, my knuckles turned white. When I arrived at the venue, my heart was hammering. I shook my head, trying to dispel the negative thoughts, but they clung to me like a shadow as I forced myself out of the car and towards the entrance. The doors loomed in front of me. This was it. No turning back now. I pulled the door open and stepped inside. The sight that greeted me was nothing short of magical. The hall was a symphony of vibrant colors and intricate decorations. Beautiful, traditional Indian elements adorned every corner, creating a mesmerizing atmosphere. That’s when it hit me—I needed to find a way to honor Margaret, to show her that she wasn’t losing a son but gaining a daughter.

Guests in colorful attire moved gracefully, their laughter and chatter filling the air. And then I saw her—Anita, standing in the center of it all, dressed in a stunning red sari. Not the white dress I had expected at all. I was overwhelmed, my breath catching in my throat. The beauty, the unexpectedness of it all, it was like stepping into another world. As I stood there, taking it all in, Anita’s father approached me, a warm, welcoming smile on his face. “Margaret,” he said, his voice rich and kind, “thank you for honoring our traditions by wearing white. It means a lot to us.” I blinked, my mind trying to process his words. “I… I didn’t realize. I thought…” My voice trailed off, embarrassment flooding me. He nodded, understanding in his eyes. “In our culture, white is significant for weddings. It symbolizes purity and new beginnings. You look beautiful.” Relief, gratitude, and awe washed over me in waves. I hadn’t been set up. Instead, I had been given a place of honor, just as Anita had said. A lump formed in my throat, and I fought back tears. As the evening progressed, I found myself relaxing. The initial tension melted away, replaced by a genuine enjoyment of the celebration. During the reception, I spotted Anita and made my way over to her. “Anita,” I began, my voice trembling slightly, “can we talk?” “Of course, Margaret,” she said, leading me to a quieter corner. We sat down, and for the first time, I saw her not as the woman who had taken my son, but as someone who wanted to be part of my family. “I misjudged you about the dress,” I admitted, my voice thick with emotion. “I let my fears and misunderstandings cloud my judgment. Thank you for making me feel special, for including me.” “You wore the dress despite your misgivings, and that’s a start.” Anita reached out and took my hand between hers. “We both want what’s best for James. Maybe we can start over, build something new together.” I nodded, a smile breaking through my tears. “I’d like that. I’d like that very much.” As we sat there, a sense of peace settled over me. This was a new beginning, not just for James and Anita, but for all of us. And in that moment, surrounded by the vibrant colors and joyous celebration, I felt a part of something beautiful, something lasting. Anita’s Perspective: The Significance of a White Dress. I settled into the cozy armchair in my new home, a steaming cup of chai warming my hands. I opened the wedding album on my lap, eager to relive the memories of that incredible day. Each photo brought a smile to my face, but one picture in particular made my heart swell with happiness—Margaret, beaming in the white dress I had chosen for her. I sipped my chai, thinking back to the countless hours I’d spent planning the wedding with my father. The discussions were endless, and sometimes, downright exhausting. Blending traditions while making sure everyone felt included wasn’t easy. But seeing Margaret’s radiant smile made every late night and tough decision worth it. Initially, I was so apprehensive about Margaret. James had warned me about his mother’s protective nature. “She’s just worried about me,” he’d say, trying to mediate our disagreements. I feared she’d never accept me, always seeing me as the woman who took her son away. The thought of planning a wedding with her scrutinizing every detail was daunting. For my own sanity, I had to exclude her. But as the planning progressed, I realized Margaret’s resistance wasn’t about me personally. It was about her love and concern for James. She wanted the best for him, and she was scared of losing her place in his life. That’s when it hit me—I needed to find a way to honor her, to show her that she wasn’t losing a son but gaining a daughter. The idea of the white dress came to me during one of my many late-night talks with my father. He’d been my rock throughout this process, offering wisdom and guidance at every turn. I remember one particular conversation vividly. “Papa,” I began, voicing my concerns, “how do I make Margaret feel special? She’s been so distant, so cold. I want her to know she’s important to us.” My father, always patient, sipped his chai thoughtfully before responding. “Anita, in our culture, a wedding isn’t just about the bride and groom. It’s the union of two families. Making Margaret feel special isn’t just a nice gesture; it’s essential. If you can make her feel welcome, you’ve already won half the battle.” On the wedding day, seeing Margaret step into the venue, looking both anxious and beautiful, my heart soared. When my father greeted her warmly and explained the significance of the dress, I saw her expression soften. It was a moment of connection, of understanding that went beyond words. I paused at the photo of Margaret and me, standing side by side, both smiling. That day marked not just the beginning of my life with James, but the beginning of a new relationship with Margaret. We weren’t just in-laws; we were family. I finished my chai, feeling a profound sense of gratitude. The wedding had been a journey of love, not just between James and me, but among all of us. My father’s words lingered in my mind, “A successful marriage begins with the families.” Looking at the photos, I knew we had taken the first steps towards that success. Margaret’s smile in that white dress was proof enough.