I had my son Lucas at 22. His biological father left before he was born, so it was just us for a long time. When I met Michael, everything changed. He loved Lucas immediately—school events, scraped knees, bedtime talks. Lucas wasn’t “extra.” He was family.
Michael’s mother, Loretta, never approved. She made it clear she didn’t like that I “came with a child.” Still, I never imagined how far she’d go.
A few months before the wedding, Lucas became secretive—locking his door, hiding something. Three weeks before the big day, he finally showed me why.
He’d made my wedding dress.
Not bought. Not altered.
Hand-crocheted. Soft ivory. Every stitch done by his hands.
I cried and promised I’d wear it.
On the wedding morning, when I stepped out in the dress, guests whispered in awe. Lucas beamed with pride.
Then Loretta arrived.
She sneered. “Please tell me you didn’t let that child make your dress. Crochet is for girls. It looks like a tablecloth.”
Lucas broke.
Before I could speak, Michael stepped forward.
“That dress,” he said, “is the most meaningful thing my wife could wear. Lucas is my son. If anyone here disrespects him, they can leave.”
He turned to his mother. “You will apologize—or you won’t be part of this family.”
She did. Too late.
Lucas walked me down the aisle.
That day, he didn’t just make a dress.
He learned he was chosen.
Completely. Forever.
