THE MOMENT THE WEDDING DRESS SLIPPED DOWN

My name is Andrew Collins, thirty-one years old, a construction engineer living in Seattle, Washington. My income isn’t exceptionally high compared to the average standard, about $85,000 a year, but it’s enough for me to confidently support a small family—enough to believe I could give the woman by my side a stable, decent, and secure life.

My wife is Emily Collins, twenty-nine, working in interior design. We dated for two years before getting married. Those two years were not loud or dramatic, but deep enough for me to believe that Emily was the woman I wanted to spend my life with.

Emily was gentle, reserved, and somewhat guarded. From the very beginning of our relationship, she made one thing clear to me:

“I’ve been betrayed before. I need time to trust a man again. I want to save everything until after marriage.”

I didn’t object. On the contrary, I respected her decision.

Not because I was old-fashioned or conservative, but because I genuinely loved her. I thought to myself: if waiting a little longer could give the woman I love peace of mind, then it was worth it.

For two years, I never crossed the line. We held hands, hugged, shared gentle kisses—enough to feel close, but never going further. My friends laughed at me sometimes.

“What century are you living in?”

I just smiled. I believed in my choice.

Then we got married.

The wedding was simple but elegant, held at a small lakeside hotel. Emily looked breathtaking in her white wedding dress—so beautiful that I almost forgot how to breathe. When she walked toward me as the slow music played, I thought: This is the woman of my life.

The reception ended around eleven at night.

We returned to our bridal suite, softly lit with warm yellow lights, rose petals, and the faint scent of candles. I felt nervous—not from desire, but from the sacredness of the moment when two people officially become one.

Emily stood in front of the mirror, her back to me.

I stepped closer and gently removed the pin from her hair. Her long hair fell softly over her shoulders. She took a deep breath, as if bracing herself.

“Andrew…” she said quietly. “If there’s something about me that surprises you… please don’t judge too quickly.”

I didn’t understand what she meant.

Until the wedding dress slipped from her shoulders.

And then… fell.

I froze.

Under the warm light, Emily’s body was slowly revealed before me. Across her abdomen were deep stretch marks, spreading unevenly like scars. Her thighs bore them too—clearly visible, impossible to mistake.

I stood there, stunned.

Images I had once seen online flashed through my mind—women after childbirth, women who had been pregnant.

I couldn’t say a word.

Emily turned around, and when she saw the color drain from my face, she immediately understood. She pulled a shawl around herself, her eyes filling with tears.

“I’m sorry…”

Her voice trembled.

We sat down on the edge of the bed. Silence stretched between us.

Then Emily began to speak.

Before me, she had loved another man. They had been together for years, even planned to marry. She became pregnant. But when he found out, he betrayed her and left.

Emily chose to keep the baby.

But fate was cruel. The fetus died in the sixth month.

She never heard her baby cry. Never got to hold her child.

All that remained were the stretch marks on her body—the only proof that she had once been a mother, even if she never got to be called one.

“I didn’t tell you,” Emily said through tears, “because I thought it was my past. I never did anything wrong to you. I don’t have a child. If I did, I would have told you. I just wanted to know… if you truly loved me.”

I listened, but my mind was in chaos.

I felt sympathy for her.

But I also felt… deceived.

Not because of Emily’s past, but because I had never been given the chance to know, to prepare myself. Those stretch marks haunted me. They formed an invisible wall between us.

Our wedding night ended in silence.

For the entire week that followed, I didn’t touch Emily.

She didn’t complain. She didn’t argue. She was simply quiet.

Eventually, I said:

“Maybe you could go to a cosmetic clinic… to remove those marks?”

Emily looked at me for a long time. Then she asked softly:

“You can’t accept me as I am?”

I couldn’t answer.

Between love and obsession, I was lost. I loved my wife, but I couldn’t force myself to pretend that what disturbed me didn’t exist.

Now I stand before a question that even I don’t know how to answer:

Was my request unreasonable?
Or was I simply not generous enough to love a person completely—along with her past?