Beatrix is my name. When I turned 60, I finally decided to live for myself. After putting everyone else first for years, I made my own wedding dress. I hand-stitched the lace on it, and it was a delicate pink color. It meant a new beginning. But when my daughter-in-law laughed at me in front of our guests, what should have been the finest day of my life turned into a horrible one. That is, until my kid came up to the microphone and told everyone who I was.
It wasn’t love that got me began; it was survival. My husband left when our son Lachlan was three years old. There was no warning and no fight. He simply said, “I don’t want to share you with a toddler,” and then he went. That night, I stood in the kitchen with our son in one arm and bills that needed to be paid in the other. I didn’t have time to cry.
From then on, my existence was all about work and duties. I worked as a receptionist during the day and a waiter at night. There was something to do every hour. I worked, cleaned, and cooked again and over. I would eat cold leftovers off the floor at night and wonder if this was all there was. Every day was a fight to stay alive.
We didn’t have a lot. People in the area or at church offered them clothes. I’d replace what I could find and sew what I couldn’t. Sewing became a calming hobby for me. A small bit of creativity in a life that didn’t have much room for it. I would think about producing something pleasant for myself from time to time, but I never let the idea stick around. That seemed selfish. And it wasn’t okay to be selfish.
I had to follow my ex’s regulations. Some individuals yelled, and others hinted: “No pink, no white, no joy.” “White is only for brides.” He once joked, “Pink is for dumb little girls.” I wore gray, beige, and whatever else that might not stand out. Over time, I faded too. I became background noise in my life.
But I kept on going. When he was a kid, Lachlan was kind, hard-working, and caring. When he married a woman named Jocelyn, I told myself I had done my part. I had raised a good man. Then, one day, a watermelon changed everything.
I saw Quentin in the parking lot of a grocery store. He offered to help me when I was struggling to handle shopping bags and a runaway watermelon. He said, “Before that melon runs away.” I laughed before I even looked. His eyes were warm, and his grin was charming. We talked for half an hour right there. He had lost his wife. It had been more than 30 years since I had been on a date. But it felt right.
The relationship moved from coffee to supper. He never made me feel like I was “past my time.” He appreciated how I appeared with my messy hair and functional shoes. Months later, while we were eating pot roast and drinking wine, he asked me to marry him. No huge gestures, just being honest. I agreed. And for the first time in a long time, I felt like someone was watching me.
We were going to get married in the town hall with just a few people. I knew exactly what I wanted to wear. Not white. Not beige. But pink. A soft pink that isn’t scared. I bought the fabric on sale: blush satin with little lace flowers. I brought it home like it was a treasure. I hadn’t done anything for myself in years. I felt like I was breaking the rules, and my heart raced. I might have been.
It took me three weeks to make that dress. It came together one stitch at a time. It wasn’t flawless, but it was mine. I felt like I was putting myself back together too. One night, I showed Lachlan and Jocelyn the clothing. It hung over my sewing machine and sparkled in the sun.
Jocelyn laughed. “Are you kidding? Pink? Is this outfit okay for a wedding? “At 60?” she snorted. “You look like a kid in a costume.” You’re not a cupcake; you’re a grandma.
I smiled a lot. I said, “It makes me happy.”
She rolled her eyes. “Whatever.”
It stung, but I told myself not to let her make me unhappy. Joy doesn’t come apart easy when you weave it carefully.
On the day of the wedding, I stood in my room and looked in the mirror. My hair was up, my makeup was light, and the dress fit me like it had been waiting for me to wear it my whole life. The seams didn’t have to be perfect, and the stitches didn’t have to be even. I looked like I was starting over, not going away.
They smiled when guests came. Some folks said nice things about the clothes. One woman said, “What a difference.” Someone else said, “You look great.” For the first time in a long time, I trusted them. Until Jocelyn showed up.
She looked at me and chuckled. “You look like a cupcake at a kid’s party,” she said in a loud voice. “All that pink… don’t you feel bad?”
My smile went away. People began to talk in whispers. Her voice was nasty and rough. “You make Lachlan look bad,” she replied. “What will his friends think?”
I felt the old embarrassment come back. That voice instructed me to stay quiet, wear beige, and fit in. Lachlan got up and tapped his glass, though.
He asked, “Can I say something to everyone?”
Everyone in the room stopped what they were doing.
“Do you see my mom in that pink dress?” he questioned. “That’s not just a piece of cloth.” It’s been years of giving stuff up. She had to work two jobs to pay for everything. She never bought anything for herself that was new. She gave up everything so that I may have anything. And now she finally done something good for herself. She made that clothing. Every stitch conveys a tale. That pink? That’s what makes her happy. That’s what gives her strength.
He stared at Jocelyn. “If you can’t respect that, we have a bigger problem.” But I will always defend the woman who raised me.
He then raised his drink. “To my mom.” Too much pink. To joy.
People cheered. The glasses made a noise. Someone yelled, “Well said!” I cried. “I was just kidding,” Jocelyn remarked, but no one else laughed.
People saw me as a woman who had found herself again, not just as a mom or a guest, throughout the rest of the night. The people that arrived to the celebration admired the clothes. Some folks even asked if I could manufacture things particularly for them. Quentin held my hand and remarked, “You’re the most beautiful bride I’ve ever seen.”
He genuinely did mean it. And I believed in him.
Jocelyn spent the whole night in the corner on her phone. She tried to join in on a few conversations, but no one really wanted her to. I wasn’t mad. Not this time.
The next day, she sent a message that read, “You made me look bad.” Don’t expect an apology.
I didn’t say anything back. She looked like a terrible person.
I thought for too long that leaving meant being a good mother. That happiness didn’t last long. I thought that women like me shouldn’t say anything.
But I can’t hide how great pink looks on me anymore.
Now I’m going to ask you what color you don’t want to wear. And maybe more importantly, why?
