My dad’s girlfriend showed up at my wedding in a white gown that looked way too familiar. What she didn’t realize was that I had one last surprise up my sleeve—one that would change everything.
I’m Junia, 27, and this fall I was marrying Orric, my partner of six years. He’s 29, still brings me coffee in bed on Sundays, sings terribly in the car, and somehow always knows when I just need quiet and a hand to hold.
We’re not flashy. We love slow mornings, hiking with our dog, and making up silly dances in the kitchen. Being with him feels like home.
Our wedding reflected us perfectly. No ballroom, no chandeliers. Just my aunt’s farmhouse, our closest friends, string lights, barbecue, and a local bluegrass band. Warm, personal, simple. No drama—or so I thought.
Then came my dad’s girlfriend, Rhea.
She’s 42, works in interior design, and has been dating my dad, who’s 55, for about two years. She always looks perfectly put together—flowy blouses, oversized sunglasses, heels that click with every step. Confident, maybe too confident, and the type of woman who could turn a quiet dinner into a TED Talk about her latest juice cleanse.
At family gatherings, she didn’t just talk—she performed. Somehow, the spotlight always landed on her. I tried not to let it bother me, convincing myself it was just enthusiasm. But over time, her over-the-top attention started creeping into moments that mattered to me.
Like when Orric and I got engaged last year. I wanted to tell my family in person, but Rhea beat me to it during brunch with extended relatives.
“Oh, didn’t Junia tell you? She and Orric are engaged!” she said, laughing as if it were nothing.
I forced a smile. “Yeah… we were going to tell everyone together tonight.”
“Oh no! My bad, sweetie. I just assumed it was already public knowledge!”
I cried in the car later that day. Orric squeezed my hand. “It’s still your engagement. She can’t take that from you.”
But last week, she went too far.
We were at my dad’s for Sunday dinner: me, Orric, my sister Darcy, Dad, and Rhea. Rhea, in rare form, dominated the conversation, as usual. Somewhere between salad and dessert, she cleared her throat dramatically:
“So… I already found my dress for the wedding!”
I blinked. “Oh… nice. What color?”
She proudly showed me her phone: white. Not ivory, not cream—white. A full-length, lacy, mermaid-style gown with a beaded bodice and train.
I froze. “Uh… Rhea, that’s… white.”
She laughed, her high-pitched, dismissive laugh. “Oh, come on! It’s ivory. No one will confuse me for the bride!”
Darcy nearly choked on her water. My dad just looked down at his wine glass. I stared at him, willing him to speak. He didn’t.
“Rhea,” I said, trying to stay calm, “I’d really appreciate it if you didn’t wear something like a wedding dress to my wedding.”
She waved her manicured hand. “Sweetie, you’re overreacting. Yours is simple, casual—this will look completely different.”
My blood ran cold.
“How do you know what my dress looks like?” I asked.
She smiled smugly. “Your dad showed me a photo.”
Orric sat up straighter. Darcy muttered, “What the hell…”
I stared at Dad. “You showed her my dress?”
“I didn’t think it was a big deal,” he mumbled.
I couldn’t sleep that night. The image of Rhea, confident in white, haunted me. The next morning, I called Brisa, my seamstress.
“Junia,” she hesitated, “Rhea reached out yesterday. She wants a similar dress… same pattern.”
I felt the air leave my lungs. She wasn’t just wearing white—she was trying to upstage me, my months of work, and my inspiration from my mom’s wedding photos.
I called Darcy. “She’s psychotic. Wants to be the bride at my wedding.”
“She laughed when you said not to wear white?” Darcy asked.
“Yes. Dad did nothing.”
I clenched my fists. “She’s not walking into my wedding dressed like me.”
Over the next weeks, I kept my cool. At my bridal shower, Rhea floated around like she owned the place. I had a plan.
I emailed all the female guests (excluding Rhea) with a simple request: soft rustic shades—off-white, ivory, cream, earthy tones. Flowy fabrics, coordinated autumn vibes.
Then I met Brisa again. “I need a second dress,” I said. “Something bold. Something completely different.”
“Sunflower yellow,” I told her. “Chiffon, white lace accents, golden sash.”
The wedding day arrived crisp and golden. My yellow dress glowed against the late afternoon sun. Guests all wore coordinated neutral shades. And then… Rhea showed up. In her tight, ivory, mermaid gown.
She stopped in her tracks. Dozens of women, all in similar shades, surrounded her. She saw me under the birch arch, glowing like a sunflower. Her face fell.
During dinner, she tried to reclaim attention, but everyone ignored her. My dad squirmed uncomfortably. When speeches began, Hadley, my mom’s best friend, delivered a soft but powerful tribute:
“Some people wear white to steal attention. Junia wears yellow to shine in her own light.”
Silence, then applause. Rhea’s smile disappeared. She left early.
Days later, my dad called.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I should have stepped in sooner.”
“Dad, she humiliated herself,” I said. “I didn’t.”
Two weeks later, they broke up. Darcy sent me a screenshot: Rhea’s Instagram wiped clean. No selfies, no quotes, no posts—just gone.
My dad admitted, “She wasn’t who I thought she was. You handled her better than I could have.”
I smiled. “I just wanted to make sure no one forgot whose day it was.”
He nodded. “Trust me, no one did.”