I told him straight away that I didn’t want anything like that at our wedding.
He laughed and said that he wasn’t planning to do it. But right on our wedding day, my fiancé—no, my husband—decided to ignore that completely.
It wasn’t a big thing to ask. No dance routines. No hidden serenades. No choreographed flash mobs or surprise animal appearances. I just wanted something simple, genuine, heartfelt. We’d talked about it over pancakes the week after he proposed. I’d even said, “Please, not like Kiran’s wedding—you remember how the groom came in on a camel?” And he’d laughed so hard he nearly spit his coffee. “You really think I’d do that to you?” he said.
And yet.
Our wedding was at this little vineyard just outside Asheville. It was all cream linens and hanging string lights, the kind of place you don’t need to over-decorate because nature’s already doing most of the work. I walked down the aisle to a string quartet playing a slowed-down version of “Here Comes The Sun.” My mom was crying before I even reached the front.
It was perfect.
Right up until the reception.
I remember the first few moments like they’re glued in slow motion. I’d just changed into my second dress—a simpler satin slip so I could dance without worrying about stepping on the train. People were starting to get tipsy. My uncle Rafi was trying to convince the bartender to make him a “proper mojito” even though I’d told everyone it was a beer-and-wine event.
And then suddenly, I heard the music shift.
A screech. Then a beat drop. Then voices—pre-recorded, amplified, coming from the DJ booth.
That’s when I saw them.
Five of his groomsmen in matching sunglasses, strutting into the middle of the dance floor. Doing… moves.
No. No no no.
I froze. There was a spotlight now. Where did that come from? Who authorized this?
Then Kaveen—my new husband—slid into the circle. Literally. On his knees. In a sequined blazer he must’ve changed into in the side room.
The crowd went wild.
I stood there, in my $1,300 second dress, wondering if this was a joke. But it wasn’t. They had rehearsed this. He had choreographed the whole thing, to “Uptown Funk,” of all songs.
I should’ve walked out. Honestly, a small part of me wanted to. But I just stood there, rooted to the floor, lips pressed so tight I could feel my molars.
After what felt like six minutes of humiliation, he ran over to me, panting and grinning. “Surprise!” he said. “I know you said no stunts, but I had to do this one thing—c’mon, it’s fun, right?”
I said nothing. I just walked past him and out the back patio door.
He followed a minute later.
I turned to him and said, “You promised.”
He tried to play it off. “It’s just dancing, Samira. No animals. No fireworks. Just a bit of fun.”
I looked at him and realized something cold and hard was blooming in my chest. “You knew this mattered to me.”
His smile faltered. “Yeah, but… it was harmless.”
I shook my head. “It wasn’t about the dance. It’s that you lied. And you think it’s fine, because you think your charm cancels it out.”
He went quiet after that.
We didn’t talk much for the rest of the evening. He gave a speech during dinner, people clapped, we took photos, we smiled. But the energy had shifted. It wasn’t cold—it was hollow.
The next few days on our “mini-moon” in Charleston, I kept running that moment through my mind. That grin. That sequined jacket. The way he made a joke out of something I’d drawn a boundary around.
It wasn’t just a wedding stunt. It was a red flag.
Still, I didn’t blow up our marriage right then. I’m not that dramatic. We moved into our condo back in Charlotte, did the married couple thing. Grocery runs, shared calendars, brunch with friends. From the outside, we were golden.
But inside, I started noticing a pattern.
Every time I asked him not to do something, he found a way to tweak it just enough that he could still get his way—then act confused when I was upset.
I didn’t want to host that enormous Super Bowl party? He “scaled it down” to twenty people and blamed me for not being flexible. I said I didn’t want his cousin Amrit moving in after losing his job? He told her yes anyway, then told me “It’s just for a couple weeks.” She stayed for five months.
And when I finally sat him down and said, “I don’t feel respected in this marriage,” he said, “Babe, you’re just stressed. You take things too seriously.”
That was the final crack.
I didn’t leave right away. I tried counseling. Twice. He hated it. Said the therapist “just took my side” because she was a woman. I gave it four more months after that.
Then one morning, I was brushing my teeth and looked up in the mirror—and I didn’t recognize the woman looking back at me.
She looked tired. Small. Not like herself.
So I left.
He cried. Told me he’d change. Sent long, emotional emails. But when I asked him to name one boundary I’d set that he hadn’t broken, he couldn’t answer.
Divorce was messy. But not tragic.
I moved in with my cousin Mala for a bit. I started hiking again. I started laughing again.
I also started therapy—real therapy, not the couples stuff. And over time, I realized something: I wasn’t mad at him for dancing. I was mad because I had spent years teaching someone how to treat me, and they chose not to learn.
Fast forward a year and a half. I was at a friend’s baby shower when I ran into someone I hadn’t seen since college.
His name was Jabril.
He’d been in my economics class, sat behind me, always borrowing pens and leaving crumbs from granola bars on the desks.
We got to talking. Ended up having coffee the next week. Then lunch. Then dinners.
It was slow. Easy. Gentle in a way I didn’t know love could be.
One day, I told him about the wedding dance. The whole mess.
He didn’t laugh. He didn’t minimize. He just said, “If you tell someone who you are, and they ignore it, that’s not love. That’s ego.”
I don’t know why, but that sentence hit me like a full-body exhale.
Jabril never tried to “fix” my preferences. He just asked what they were—and respected them.
Not long after we started dating, he was invited to emcee a friend’s wedding. He asked if I wanted to come. I said yes. Then he paused and said, “They’re doing some choreographed dance stuff. Is that gonna bother you?”
I smiled. “As long as I don’t have to do it, I’m good.”
He nodded. “Just checking.”
That tiny moment? It meant more than roses and candlelight ever could.
Three years later, Jabril proposed—not with a flash mob, not on a jumbotron, just in our kitchen, while we were making pancakes.
I said yes, standing barefoot in flour.
We got married at a botanical garden. My mom cried again.
He didn’t do a dance.
But at the reception, just before the last song, he took the mic and said:
“This one’s for my wife. It’s not a performance. It’s a thank-you.”
And then he played “Here Comes the Sun.”
He didn’t dance. He just held my hand.
And in that moment, I felt seen. Like the world had folded itself into a small, perfect note that read: “You were never asking for too much. Just the right thing from the wrong person.”
If you’ve ever been made to feel small for having boundaries—please know this. Love doesn’t bulldoze. It listens. It waits. It respects the ‘no’ and celebrates the ‘yes.’
And if someone ever breaks a promise and laughs like it’s no big deal, remember: the small things are the big things.
Like, share, and tag someone who needs to hear this.