The light in here was… blinding. Not harsh, but too bright, reflecting off a thousand sequins, a million pearls. Every surface shimmered. White, cream, ivory, champagne. A cathedral of dreams, where every gown was a whispered promise, a silent hope. For others.I wasn’t a bride. Not anymore. I hadn’t been in a long time.
What am I even doing here? The thought was a dull ache behind my eyes, a constant companion since… well, since everything. I clutched my purse strap until my knuckles were white, my knuckles looking too old and too tired for this place. Women floated past, giggling, holding up layers of tulle, their faces flushed with excitement. Brides. Happy brides.
My gaze drifted, past the laughing mothers and the enthusiastic bridesmaids, past the perfectly styled mannequins, to a dress in the back. It wasn’t the biggest or the most adorned. It was simple, elegant, with delicate lace sleeves and a flowing skirt that seemed to whisper of spring. It was her dress. The one she’d shown me a picture of, saved on her phone, blurred by a thousand zooms and screengrabs. “Mom,” she’d said, her eyes alight, “this is it. This is the one.”
In 2023, Momsen made a striking statement at a fashion event in New York.
A knot formed in my throat, tighter than any corset. I walked towards it, slowly, as if approaching something sacred and utterly forbidden. My fingers trembled as I reached out, not quite touching the pristine fabric. Just hovering. A phantom warmth, a ghost of a touch. Just one touch. Just to feel what she would have felt.
A shadow fell over me. Perfume, expensive and sharp, preceded her. “May I help you, ma’am?” Her voice was smooth, polished, but with an underlying coolness that instantly put me on edge. She was tall, impeccably dressed, her hair a sleek blonde bob that didn’t move an inch. Her smile was pasted on, a practiced, professional mask.
“I… I was just looking,” I managed, my voice raspy. I cleared my throat, feeling exposed and utterly out of place. My jeans and old sweater suddenly felt like a costume for a different life, one that didn’t belong in this realm of perfect satin and shimmering organza.
In 1999, Osment became a household name with his haunting performance in “The Sixth Sense.”
She didn’t miss a beat. Her eyes scanned me, lingering on my worn sneakers, then flicking back up to my face with an unreadable expression. “Are you here for an appointment?”
“No,” I admitted, feeling a flush creep up my neck. “I just… I saw this dress.” I gestured vaguely towards the dress.
Her smile thinned. “Ah, the Ophelia. A very popular choice. Are you the bride, then?”
The bride. The word felt like a punch to the gut. “No,” I whispered. “I’m not the bride.”
Her perfectly arched eyebrows rose. “I see. Are you perhaps here with a bride? We do require appointments for consultations and try-ons, especially for our premium gowns.”
By 2025, Osment had fully embraced a low-key Hollywood presence
“No. I’m… I’m alone.” My gaze returned to the dress, a desperate plea in my eyes. Just let me touch it. Just let me feel it for a second.
She sighed, a tiny, almost imperceptible puff of air, but loud enough to convey her impatience. “Ma’am, I understand it’s a beautiful dress, but we can’t have customers simply trying on gowns without a booked appointment and a consultation. These are delicate garments, very high value.” Her eyes drifted pointedly to my hands, then to my outfit. The message was clear: You don’t belong here. You’re not serious. You’re wasting my time.
My heart hammered against my ribs. The humiliation was a hot, bitter wave. “I just… I just want to try that one on. Just for a moment. Please.” My voice cracked. I hated myself for begging, but something deep inside me needed this.
Another saleswoman, even younger and more severe, appeared by her side. “Everything alright, Jessica?” she asked, her gaze equally dismissive.
In 2004, McCurdy was a pre-teen newcomer with long curls,
“Just an unannounced walk-in, Melanie. Interested in the Ophelia, but not quite serious, it seems.” Jessica’s tone was sugary sweet, but her eyes were ice.
Melanie offered me a look of pity mixed with condescension. “I’m afraid, ma’am, we simply can’t allow that. We have brides with scheduled fittings. Our time is very valuable. Perhaps if you’d like to browse our sample sale rack over there…” She gestured to a crowded, less organized section further away, clearly a holding pen for the less-than-ideal clientele.
“No,” I said, my voice barely audible. “I don’t want to browse. I want to try that dress.” I pointed, my finger trembling. My vision blurred. Just five minutes. Please. I just need to feel it.
Jessica’s smile vanished. “Ma’am, I’m going to have to ask you to either book an appointment, or if you’re not planning a wedding, perhaps this isn’t the best place for you right now.” Her tone hardened, leaving no room for argument. “We are a professional establishment.”
At the 2022 TIME100 Next Gala, McCurdy
Tears pricked at my eyes, hot and sudden. My throat closed completely. The beautiful white dresses around me suddenly felt suffocating. Their dismissive stares, their entitled assumptions, their thinly veiled contempt for someone who didn’t fit their perfect bridal mold… it was too much. The injustice of it, the sheer, crushing unfairness of their judgment, was unbearable. If only they knew. IF ONLY THEY KNEW.
I turned away, defeated. The dream, the tiny sliver of hope I’d harbored, shattered. My shoulders slumped. I walked past the shimmering displays, past the happy, oblivious women, my head down, desperate to escape. The bright lights now felt like a spotlight, exposing my raw, aching pain to the world.
As I pushed open the heavy glass door, letting the cool, indifferent city air hit my face, a sob escaped me. It wasn’t just about a dress. It was about everything. It was about what that dress represented. What it should have represented.
At just 11 years old, Keke Palmer was already turning heads on red carpets.
The saleswomen, standing there, perfectly poised in their cathedral of dreams, had no idea. They hadn’t known the important detail. They hadn’t known why that specific dress, the ‘Ophelia’, had called to me with such desperate urgency.
That dress wasn’t for me.
It was for my daughter.
And she will NEVER get to wear it.
Because she was only seventeen when the drunk driver hit her car head-on, three weeks ago. She was talking about colleges, about future plans, about that perfect dress.
Fast forward to 2025,
MY BABY. MY BEAUTIFUL GIRL. She’s gone.
And I just wanted to feel what it was like to hold her dream. Just for one moment. One last, impossible moment. I just wanted to feel it for her, because she will never walk down an aisle. And those entitled women, in their perfect, pristine store, wouldn’t even let me have that.
