That same voice that said: keep quiet, wear beige, blend into the background.
But then Lachlan stood up and tapped his glass.
‘Everyone,’ he said, ‘may I speak?’
The room fell silent.
‘Do you see my mother in that pink dress?’ he asked.
“It’s not just fabric.
It’s decades of sacrifice.
She worked two jobs to raise me.
She never bought herself anything new.
She gave everything so that I could have something.
And now, for the first time, she’s done something for herself.
She sewed this dress.
Every stitch is her story.
This pink is her joy.
This is her strength.”
He turned to Jocelyn.
“If you can’t respect that, then we have a bigger problem.
But I will always defend the woman who raised me.”
Then he raised his glass.
“To my mother.
To pink.
To joy.”
The room erupted in applause.
Glasses clinked.
Someone shouted, ‘Well said!’
My eyes filled with tears.
Jocelyn muttered, ‘I was just joking,’ but no one laughed.
For the rest of the evening, people saw me not just as a mother or a guest, but as a woman who had rediscovered herself.
The guests praised the dress.
Some even asked if I did custom sewing.
Quentin held my hand and whispered, ‘You are the most beautiful bride I have ever seen.’
He meant it.
And I believed him.
Jocelyn spent the evening buried in her phone in the corner.
She tried to join in the conversations, but no one really listened to her.
I didn’t feel sorry for her.
Not this time.
The next morning, she sent me a message: “You made me look bad.
Don’t expect an apology.”
I didn’t reply.
She made herself look bad.
For too long, I thought that being a good mother meant disappearing.
That joy had an expiry date.
That people like me shouldn’t stand out.
But pink suits me too well to hide again.
So now I ask you — what colour are you afraid to wear?
And, perhaps more importantly… why?