My Jane has always been a dreamer. When she was little, she used to wrap herself in bedsheets and old curtains and parade around the living room. She’d say, “Mom, one day, I’ll wear the most beautiful wedding dress in the world at the prettiest wedding!”

I would laugh and say, “You’d better let me come to that one.”

She ultimately kept her promise when the time came.

Jane met Dylan in college. He was quiet, polite, and had a way of making people feel seen. He was the type of guy who’d remember your dog’s name after meeting it once. Dylan would ask about your favorite book, and actually listen when you answered.

They started dating sophomore year, and by the time he proposed—six years later, under the twinkle lights at our cabin on Christmas Eve—everyone thought they were the perfect couple. Together they were patient, loving, and grounded.

They were the kind of couple that made people believe in “forever.”

My daughter called me that night, crying and laughing at the same time. “I’m getting married, Mom!” she shouted through the phone. I cried too, feeling her beaming with joy over the phone.

We spent nearly a year planning the wedding, because everything had to be perfect. Every Saturday, Jane would come over with mood boards and color palettes. We sat at the kitchen table sorting swatches, tasting cake samples, and fine-tuning the smallest details: napkin folds, candle heights, and fonts on the program.

Jane wanted timeless, not trendy. Warm, not showy. Elegant, not extravagant. We also paid special attention to the flowers, the music, the venue, but no detail mattered more to her than her biggest dream: the dress.

“It has to be something unique. Something that feels like me,” she said again and again.

She didn’t want to buy something off the rack, so we reached out to Helen, the town’s best seamstress. She was a longtime family friend and an absolute wizard with a needle and thread. Helen had made my sister’s wedding dress, and I trusted her with everything.

She and Jane clicked right away.

Fittings became our little mother-daughter ritual. Every week, Jane stepped out from behind the fitting room curtain, and my breath caught in my throat every single time. Helen worked magic!

The gown was breathtaking at the final fitting.

The final dress was everything Jane had described—a soft ivory gown with delicate lace sleeves and a sweeping train. She stood in front of the mirror, smiling at her reflection.

“It’s perfect, Mom,” she whispered. “It’s everything I ever wanted.”

I couldn’t have been prouder.

The day of the wedding, the venue felt like a beehive. Every single detail—from the napkin colors to the flower arch—had been carefully planned. Jane had spent months flipping through magazines, creating mood boards, and organizing color palettes.

The house was buzzing with laughter, perfume, and nerves. The venue had the scent of fresh coffee, mixed with the aroma of flowers that had been delivered just an hour earlier. Makeup artists rushed from room to room, and hairstylists pinned curls into place, hair curlers hissing in the bathroom.

Photographers darted around, capturing moments of barely contained excitement. Jane sat by the window in a white silk robe, her eyes sparkling like she was living inside a dream.

I was running on coffee and adrenaline, checking lists, answering calls, and making sure everything stayed on track.

Chloe, my younger daughter, had volunteered to pick up the gown. Helen had kept it overnight to steam the lace and tighten a stitch at the waist.

“Don’t worry, I’ll guard this thing with my life,” Chloe joked before she left.