By the time my birthday arrived, our apartment barely felt like our own anymore.
Every surface was claimed by someone I loved. Folding chairs lined the walls. Plates of snacks crowded the coffee table. Balloons bobbed lazily near the ceiling, their ribbons brushing my shoulders whenever I walked past. My sister had gone all out with the decorations. Gold paper banners. Warm fairy lights draped across the bookshelf. Even matching napkins, she insisted, were “non-negotiable.”
Mom had baked a chocolate cake so rich and overfrosted that it looked like it might collapse under its own weight. The smell alone made my teeth ache in anticipation.
It should have been perfect. And in many ways, it was.
Except for the strange, buzzing feeling I couldn’t shake.
From across the room, my fiancé, Blake, caught my eye. He leaned casually against the counter, drink in hand, and flashed me that slow, knowing smile that had once made my stomach flip. For a long time, that look had meant comfort, familiarity, attraction, and safety.
Tonight, it felt off.
Not bad. Just charged. Like he was in on a joke I didn’t understand.
All week, Blake had been acting this way. Dodging questions. Giving vague answers whenever I was asked about the party. Smiling to himself like he was holding onto a secret. I told myself it was excitement. Anticipation. Maybe even nerves.
I wanted to believe he was planning something special.
I’d been trying, really trying, not to get my hopes too high. But there was one thing I couldn’t stop thinking about.
The dress.
I’d seen it two months earlier, tucked into the back corner of a small boutique we’d wandered into on a lazy Saturday afternoon. Blake hadn’t even wanted to go inside.
“What’s the point of looking at things we’re not buying?” he’d said, already half-turned toward the door.
I’d laughed and tugged his sleeve anyway. “Just five minutes.”
Five minutes had turned into twenty.
The dress was soft blue, the kind of color that reminded me of early summer mornings. The fabric skimmed my body instead of clinging, and the neckline framed my shoulders perfectly. When I turned in front of the mirror, I felt beautiful in a quiet, unforced way.
“This one,” I’d whispered.
Blake had smiled. “You look great.”
Then he’d checked the tag.
“Two hundred dollars, though,” he added lightly. “We’re saving for the wedding, remember?”
I remembered. Of course I did.
I’d hung the dress back up carefully, even though my chest felt tight as I did it. It wasn’t anger, just disappointment. The grown-up kind you swallow because it makes sense.
Still, that didn’t stop me from thinking about it.
I’d shown Blake pictures of it online more times than I could count. Joked about it. Sighed dramatically about it. Each time, he’d nod, smile, and say, “Yeah, it’s nice.”
So when my birthday approached, and he started acting secretive, I let myself imagine. Just a little. Maybe he’d saved up. Maybe he’d surprised me.
That thought was still floating warmly in my chest when the front door opened.
“Sorry I’m late!” a voice called out. “Parking was a nightmare.”
I turned, smiling, until my breath caught in my throat.
Blake’s mother, Marianne, stepped into the apartment wearing the dress.
My dress.
The same shade of blue. The same neckline. The same fabric caught the light as she moved through the room, accepting greetings and compliments.
I stood frozen, my smile slipping as my brain struggled to catch up with what my eyes were seeing.
It felt like watching a dream detach itself from me and walk across the room on someone else’s body.
“Oh my goodness,” I heard myself say, my voice louder than I meant it to be as I approached her. “That’s… that’s the exact dress I wanted.”
The room didn’t go silent, but it felt like it did.
Marianne paused mid-step, surprise flickering across her face. Her arms hovered awkwardly, half-raised for a hug.
“Oh,” she said. “Really?”
She glanced instinctively toward Blake, who was already making his way over, that same pleased grin still firmly in place.
“Blake gave it to me last week,” she continued carefully. “He said I deserved something special, and that I should wear it to your birthday.”
The air felt thick. Muffled. Like I was underwater.
Before I could respond, Blake appeared beside me, holding a small gift box wrapped in patterned paper.
“Happy birthday,” he said brightly. “Open it.”
I took the box with hands that didn’t feel like mine.
Inside was a Sephora gift card. Fifty dollars.
Under normal circumstances, I would have been grateful. I loved makeup. He knew that.
But standing there, staring at that card while his mother laughed with my relatives in my dress, something inside me cracked.
I forced a smile. Thanked him. Made some excuse about needing air.
I ended up sitting in the old armchair that Blake and I had bought years ago from a thrift store, watching my own birthday party unfold as it belonged to someone else.
My sister came over at one point, concern written all over her face.
“You okay?” she whispered. “You look pale.”
“Just tired,” I lied.
The rest of the night passed in fragments. Cake. Laughter. Someone is starting a game. Marianne complimented the decorations. Blake is laughing a little too loudly.
By the time the last guest left and we stacked plates in the sink, it was nearly midnight.
Blake hummed to himself as he wiped down the counter.
“Great party,” he said. “Everyone had fun.”
I stared at him, exhaustion and hurt rising up like a wave.
“Why did you give my dress to your mom?”
He didn’t hesitate.
“I wanted to humble you.”
The words landed like ice water.
“You were getting obsessed with it,” he continued casually. “I figured it was a good test. Before marriage. See how you handle disappointment.”
A test.
I didn’t argue. I didn’t cry.
I walked into the bedroom and started packing.
He watched, confused, until the reality clicked.
“You’re leaving?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said calmly. “Guess your test didn’t go how you expected.”
I left that night and stayed with my sister.
A week later, my phone rang.
Marianne’s name lit up the screen.
We met at a quiet café downtown. She looked smaller somehow. Quieter.
She told me everything.
Blake had lied to her. Told her I’d picked out the dress for her. Asked him to surprise her with it.
“When I saw your face,” she said softly, “I knew something was wrong.”
She slid a shopping bag across the table.
Inside was the dress.
“I don’t want it,” she said firmly. “It was always meant for you.”
Then she said the words that changed everything.
“You should not marry my son.”
I left that café lighter than I’d felt in months.
I kept the dress.
I let go of the man.
And I learned that love doesn’t test you. It chooses you.
Every time.
