Everyone knows the unspoken rule of weddings: no guest, especially the mother of the groom, wears white. It’s considered disrespectful, even insulting, because it’s the bride’s color, her moment. And Alice, meticulous and image-conscious as she was, knew that better than anyone.

I tried to sound calm. “Alice… this is lovely, but are you sure? It’s white. Wouldn’t it—”

She interrupted quickly, smiling in that polite but slightly forced way she had when she wanted to end a conversation before it began. “I know it’s white, Helen. That’s intentional. I want you to wear it. It’s a symbol of unity, of purity, like we’re joining families, you know?”

I stared at her, trying to read her face. “You’re sure about this?”