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I step onto the platform and study myself in the triptych of mirrors. Beads and crystals sparkle in the soft light. The sound of my mother quietly weeping mingles with the classical music piped into the dressing room. She said we'd know when I found the perfect dress, it would make her cry. I see the reflection of her sitting in a plush chair, dabbing her eyes with a crumpled tissue. I want to cry, too, but not for the same reason. How do I tell her I've found the right dress, but can't marry the wrong man?

Story by:

Janel Gradowski

submitted at 10:20pm

29 November 2010

Janel Gradowski's web: