My mother died when I was thirteen.
One moment, she was there—laughing, reminding me to tie my shoelaces, humming in the kitchen while making her famous blueberry pie—and the next, she was gone. Just like that. No warning, no time to say goodbye. It was sudden, cruel, and left a hole in my heart that nothing could ever fill.
But she left me something priceless.
Her wedding dress.
I remember the way she smiled as she placed it in my hands, her fingers gently brushing over the delicate lace.
“For my beautiful daughter,” she had written on a small note tucked inside. “So that a part of me will always be with you on your special day.”
At thirteen, marriage felt like something that would never happen. But that dress? It was my treasure. I kept it safe, zipped up in its protective bag, untouched but waiting. Waiting for the day I would wear it and carry a piece of her with me.
Then my dad met Lisa.
Lisa was a storm in our lives—loud, persistent, smiling just a little too much, inserting herself into our conversations like she belonged there. She made comments about how I needed a “strong female figure” and how “a woman can’t grow up properly without a mother’s touch.”
I wanted to be happy for my dad. He had been lonely since my mom passed, and I knew she would have wanted him to find happiness again. But Lisa didn’t just want to be his wife—she wanted to erase my mom.
The moment she moved in, everything changed. She redecorated, boxed up my mom’s things, and made sure our home no longer looked like the one I had grown up in. My mother’s presence was vanishing before my eyes, and my dad let it happen.
Then came the engagement.
My dad proposed to Lisa after only a year together. I stayed quiet, trying to convince myself that it was his life, his decision. But when Lisa started planning the wedding, I should have known she’d take things too far.
I just never imagined this.
I came home late one evening, stepping inside to the sound of laughter coming from my dad’s bedroom. Lisa’s voice was high and excited, joined by another familiar voice—her sister, Greta.
Something felt off.
The bedroom door was slightly open, just enough for me to see inside.
And when I did, my entire world stopped.
Lisa was wearing my mother’s wedding dress.
She twirled in front of the mirror, adjusting the lace sleeves, smoothing the beading like it belonged to her. Like it wasn’t a sacred piece of my mother’s memory.
Greta clapped her hands together. “Oh my God, Lisa! It’s perfect! It’s like it was made for you!”
I saw red.
“What the hell are you doing?!” I yelled, shoving the door open.
Lisa gasped, spinning toward me, her eyes wide with fake surprise. “Oh, sweetheart! I didn’t think you’d be home yet!”
“Take. It. Off. Now.” My entire body shook with rage.
Lisa sighed dramatically, like I was a child throwing a tantrum. “I was just trying it on. No big deal.”
“No big deal?!” My voice cracked. “That dress was for me! My mom left it for me! It’s not yours!”
Her expression shifted. The fake concern melted away, replaced by something cold and condescending.
“Honey, it’s just a dress,” she said lightly. “Besides, your dad and I are getting married. Wouldn’t it be a beautiful way to honor your mother? Me wearing her dress to marry him? The symbolism is just lovely, don’t you think?”
Greta nodded. “That’s such a beautiful way to look at it.”
I turned to my dad, my last hope. He had just walked in, briefcase in hand, his face unreadable.
“Dad,” I pleaded. “Say something. This isn’t okay!”
He hesitated. I saw it—the flicker of discomfort, the guilt.
And then Lisa looped her arm through his, smiling up at him like she already knew he wouldn’t fight her on this.
And just like that, he caved.
Lisa tilted her head, her eyes gleaming with triumph. “Your dad thinks it’s a wonderful idea.”
Something inside me snapped.
I could have cried that night. I could have screamed, begged, or argued. But I didn’t.
Instead, I sat in my dark room, my laptop open, fingers shaking as I typed.
How to weaken fabric?
How to ruin lace without visible damage?
How to make a dress fall apart?
The first few articles were useless. Then I found something promising.
Soaking fabric in water and letting it dry weakens the fibers. Repeating the process multiple times makes delicate material brittle.
My breath hitched. It was perfect.
Lisa was going to walk down the aisle in a dress that wasn’t my mother’s… and she was going to humiliate herself while doing it.
Over the next few nights, I switched the dresses. My mother’s dress remained safe, locked away in my room. In its place, I put a nearly identical one that Willow, my best friend, helped me find in a thrift store.
Then, night after night, I soaked it, dried it, repeated the process until the fabric was ready to crumble at the slightest movement.
The morning of the wedding, Lisa beamed as she slipped into the fake dress, completely unaware.
“You did such a good job steaming this, Summer,” she said, admiring herself. “Now, hand me my bouquet!”
I did, barely containing my smirk.
Lisa made her grand entrance, floating down the aisle, smug as ever. My dad waited at the altar, his face a mixture of pride and nostalgia.
And just as Lisa reached him…
Rip.
A gasp echoed through the room.
The fabric at her side split clean open.
Lisa froze.
Another movement, another rip. One sleeve tore. Beads popped off, bouncing across the floor.
“What’s happening?!” Lisa shrieked, gripping at the unraveling lace.
I stepped forward, arms crossed. “I guess that’s what happens when you wear something old.”
Lisa’s face turned red. “Your mother’s dress?! Why didn’t you tell me it needed reinforcement?!”
I smiled sweetly. “Oh, Lisa. That’s not my mother’s dress.”
Her head snapped toward me, eyes burning with fury. “What did you do?!”
“I wouldn’t trust you with something that precious, Lisa. So, I got you a little… replacement.”
The entire venue fell into stunned silence. My dad looked mortified. Guests whispered. Kids giggled behind their hands. Lisa’s perfect moment crumbled—just like her dress.
And me?
I walked out of that ceremony with my head held high.
Lisa refused to speak to me after that. My dad was furious, but I just looked at him and said, “You actually let her wear Mom’s dress? You gave me no choice.”
Their wedding still happened, but not as planned. No big ceremony, no grand dress—just them, at a courthouse, in silence.
And my mom’s dress?
It’s still mine. Waiting for the day I wear it, just like she wanted.
