I was sitting on our creaky front porch swing, sipping lukewarm coffee and listening to the late spring breeze rustle through the trees when Linda walked out holding an envelope like it was radioactive. “It’s here,” she said, voice laced with disbelief. “David and Emily’s wedding invitation.”
I raised an eyebrow and took the card.
David was one of my closest friends—an old Coast Guard buddy who’d once taken shrapnel to the leg and never complained a day in his life. Emily was his calm in the storm—bright, sensible, the type of woman you just knew didn’t mess around. So I expected something elegant.
Classic. Simple. But the moment Linda read the RSVP instructions, she blinked.
Then she read them again. “You’re not going to believe this,” she muttered, flipping it around and handing it to me. I scanned the card, then stared.
At the bottom, in what I can only describe as flowery, middle-school-diary cursive, it read:
“LADIES — PLEASE WEAR WHITE. WEDDING DRESSES WELCOME!”
I choked on my coffee. “This is a joke, right?
A themed wedding? Maybe an ironic Pinterest thing?”
Linda squinted at the writing. “It’s not David’s handwriting.”
I tilted the card.
The loops on the ‘W’ could’ve doubled as rollercoasters. “You don’t think…” I trailed off. “…Dorothy,” Linda finished, her voice low.
Dorothy. Emily’s mother. A woman whose reputation preceded her like an unsolicited perfume sample—overpowering and hard to shake.
The first and only time I met her, she told me I looked “less military” in person, then tried to reorganize my wife’s spice cabinet before dessert. I called David right then and there. “Hey, Chief,” I said, using our old nickname.
What happened next changed everything… FULL STORY on the next page.
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