The Wedding Crasher: When Grandma Wore White
I always imagined my wedding day would be perfect—soft music, glowing candles, and everyone’s eyes on me as I walked down the aisle in my dream dress. What I didn’t picture? My fiancé’s grandmother making her grand entrance in a floor-length white lace gown, looking like she was about to renew her vows instead of celebrating ours.
The second she glided into the chapel, the air turned electric. My maid of honor, Dani, nearly choked on her champagne. "Tell me I’m hallucinating," she whispered.
But no. There stood Grandma Eleanor, beaming like she’d just won bingo night, her silver hair curled into an elaborate updo—paired with my wedding color.
My mother’s grip on my arm tightened. "Oh, honey…"
Meanwhile, Mark’s family shifted uncomfortably. His aunt muttered, "She swore she was wearing blue!"
The Showdown
I intercepted Eleanor before she could reach the front row. "You’re… wearing white," I said, my voice dangerously calm.
She patted my cheek. "Oh, darling, it’s champagne! And at my age, no one will confuse me for the bride."
"Everyone’s already confused!" I hissed.
Mark rushed over, panic in his eyes. "Babe, let’s just—"
"Let’s just what? Pretend this isn’t happening?" I snapped.
Eleanor sighed. "If it’s really a problem…" She reached into her purse and—I swear this is true—pulled out a fuchsia pashmina. "Ta-da! Now it’s accented!"
The Family Feud
At the reception, the room split into factions:
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Team Bride: "Who does that? It’s basic etiquette!"
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Team Grandma: "She’s old, let her live!"
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Team Mark: "Can we please stop talking about this?"
Then came the k!cker. Mark’s cousin pulled me aside. "She wore ivory to three family weddings. Last time, she told the bride, ‘Tradition is peer pressure from dead people.’"
The B!tter End
We cut the cake. We fake-smiled through photos. And when Eleanor slow-danced with Mark to "Unchained Melody" (why that song?), I realized:
Some people don’t want a happy day—they want a story. And by God, she got one.
So I ask you: Was I wrong to rage? Or should I’ve "accidentally" spilled the red wine I was definitely holding?