Alena stood before the tall mirror in her hotel suite, delicately adjusting the intricate lace of her wedding gown.
Yet the woman looking back at her seemed unsure, shadows of doubt clouding the otherwise radiant moment. The dress fit like a dream—elegant, refined—but the harsh echo of her future mother-in-law’s biting words lingered louder than any praise.
Morning light poured in through the window, illuminating everything except the heaviness settling in her chest. Today was meant to be filled with joy, yet it already felt like a trial she hadn’t anticipated.
“It’s vulgar,” Valentina Grigoryevna had snapped when Alena first revealed the dress. She had examined her with the same disdain one might reserve for spoiled fruit at a market stall.
“What don’t you like about it?” Alena had asked quietly.
“That’s just it, my dear,” Valentina said, waving a dismissive hand. “Back in my day, a bride wore something dignified. This… this looks like a peasant costume.”
Alena turned to Sasha. “Do you like it?”
He hesitated. “It’s… fine. What matters is that you feel good in it.”
“Alexander,” his mother cut in sharply, “you can’t let her turn the wedding into a circus. This is a ceremony, not a cabaret.”
“Mom, please,” Sasha muttered, cheeks reddening.
Valentina shot Alena a piercing look. “Taste comes from breeding, darling. And honestly—how much refinement can a girl from the outskirts have? Someone who was digging potatoes just last week?”
“Sasha, wait,” his father tried to intervene. “Mom, that’s enough.”
“What? I’m just telling the truth. Better he sees who she really is now than be embarrassed later.”
Alena walked away, silent and resolute. She owed no one an explanation. She had earned a degree at one of Moscow’s best universities, built a career in advertising, and was raised with dignity. None of that mattered to Valentina—and Alena refused to prove her worth to a woman so cold.
That evening, Sasha came with flowers.
“Please forgive her,” he said softly, pressing a kiss to her forehead. “She’s just scared. I’m her only son.”
“Do my feelings even matter to you? Or do your mother’s always come first?” Alena asked, her voice steady.
“Sasha, don’t make a scene. The wedding’s in a week. She’ll come around,” he pleaded.
“And if she never does?”
He pulled her close. “She has no choice. You’re incredible.”
But Alena knew the truth: when it came down to it, Sasha would stand by his mother.
Now, on her wedding day, staring into the mirror, that truth weighed on her.
“Maybe the dress is too much,” she wondered briefly. But no—it hugged her curves perfectly, understated yet elegant. Her makeup was flawless, her hair done just right. Nothing about her appearance matched Valentina’s cruel caricature.
“Lenka, are you ready?” Sasha’s voice called from the hallway.
“Yes, coming,” she replied.
The ceremony passed in a blur. Valentina, dressed impeccably in a navy Italian suit, sat stiffly in the front row. When the officiant invited the couple to kiss, she glanced down, absorbed in her manicure.
“Mom, really?” Sasha whispered afterward.
Alena smiled through the photos, exchanged polite greetings, and clasped Sasha’s hand as they left the registry office. Yet inside, a cold distance lingered. Valentina’s disdain wasn’t new—but today, it cast a shadow over what should have been the brightest day of her life. Sasha’s quiet complicity spoke volumes.
As they climbed into the waiting car, Alena glanced back at the building—not with warmth or nostalgia, but with quiet determination. She wasn’t just marrying a man; she was stepping into a battlefield she never signed up for. But if Valentina believed one insult or one dismissive look could break her, she was sorely mistaken.
She squared her shoulders, adjusted her veil, and whispered under her breath, “This may not be the wedding I imagined—but it won’t define the life I’ll live.”
Sometimes, the strongest vows are the ones we make to ourselves.