During the final alterations three weeks ago at the tailor I’d hired to come to Vermont and tighten as needed, Graham’s mother insisted on joining me to see the dress in person for the first time. I’d never even shown her photos and she recognized that, in not paying for it, she didn’t technically have a right to see.

She sat next to Lena on the white velvet couch, a judgmental smile tucked onto her face as she pretended to sip Moët—champagne has too many calories for her. Even in the Village’s most sought-after wedding boutique, Cheryl was acutely aware that she was the most expensive thing in the store.

When I came out of the changing room and stood on the small pedestal, the dress—an inch too large now—softly tucked with clips at my hips, I watched Cheryl’s face carefully. She and Graham have the same expressions, so once I learned his, she became easy to read. As she looked at me, listening to the seamstress explain where the dress would be tailored, her usually unemotional face from the Botox and fillers had a layer of something else to it. It wasn’t until I got home a few hours later that I recognized what it was: impressed. Not by the dress or the way I looked in it—she called it “lovely” which in Cheryl means not what I would have chosen—but impressed by my successful manipulation of the system to get exactly what I wanted.

Between the gown and the expected alterations, I’d put down the better part of my salary for the dress of my choice, but I knew that was the only aspect of our wedding I was paying for. And I insisted on paying for it for that exact reason: to get what I wanted. I didn’t give a shit about the flowers or the cake or the band or the table settings. Graham’s mother could dictate those items entirely. But if I was going to be immortalized in photographs and a New York Times feature, if this wedding was going to be the talk of the town and my photo the token image to go along with it, I wanted complete control over what I was going to wear.