At my wedding, my mother-in-law, Linda, arrived late—gliding down the church aisle in a full-length white lace gown, the same shade as mine. She clung to my groom like she was the star of the show. It stole my spotlight and nearly my sanity. I let it go, buried the photos, and moved on.

Years later, my brother-in-law got married. His fiancée, Sarah, was sweet and optimistic. I warned her about Linda’s past stunt, and she reassured me, “She promised to dress appropriately this time.” But when heels clicked down the garden path, there she was—same white lace dress, now with a red sash, and the same smug expression.

Linda tried to repeat history, wrapping herself around the groom and inserting herself into every photo. But this time, the photographer wasn’t having it. “Oh, I wasn’t sure who the bride was,” he said, loud enough for the whole wedding to hear. “It’s just… you’re wearing white and holding the groom’s hand.” Laughter erupted. Her spell broke.

Red-faced, Linda hissed that she was “the most important woman there” before storming off in a cloud of lace and ego. The rest of the day was pure magic—no drama, no interruptions. Weeks later, Sarah sent me the wedding photos. “Better than I imagined,” she said, beaming. As for Linda? She’s not in a single frame.