When I was thirteen, my mom pa:sse:d away.
It was sudden, cruel, and the most painful thing I had ever endured.
But she was my best friend, and she left me something truly priceless—her wedding dress.
“For my beautiful daughter,
this is so that a part of me will always be with you on your special day.
—Mom”
Then, my dad met Lisa.
Lisa entered our lives like a whirlwind—always smiling too much, inserting herself into every conversation as if she belonged. She made thoughtless comments about how I needed a “strong female figure” and how “a girl can’t grow up properly without a mother’s touch.”
No one could ever replace my mother, but I knew she would have wanted us to be happy.
Lisa, however, didn’t just want to be my dad’s new wife—she wanted to erase my mom.
Then came the engagement.
After only a year together, my dad proposed. It was his life, his choice.
But when Lisa began planning the wedding, I should have known she’d take things too far.
One evening, I came home late to the sound of laughter coming from my dad’s bedroom. A voice that wasn’t his rang out—Greta, Lisa’s sister.
I approached the cracked-open door and peeked inside.
Lisa was wearing my mom’s wedding dress.
“What the hell are you doing?!” I burst in, slamming the door open.
Lisa turned to me, unfazed. “Oh, sweetheart, I didn’t think you’d be home yet!”
“Take. It. Off. Now.”
“That dress is mine! My mom left it for me! It’s not yours!”
She smiled, that fake, sickly-sweet smile that made my stomach turn.
“Honey, it’s just a dress,” she sighed. “Besides, wouldn’t it be a beautiful way to honor your mother? Me wearing her dress to marry your dad? The symbolism is lovely, don’t you think?”
I turned to my father, who had just walked in, briefcase in hand.
“Dad. Say something. This isn’t okay!”
Lisa looped her arm through his, smiling up at him like she already knew he wouldn’t fight her on this.
“Your dad thinks it’s a wonderful idea.”
That night, I could have screamed, cried, or drowned my emotions in junk food…
Instead, I sat in my dark room, laptop open, scrolling through articles with shaking fingers.
Then, I found something interesting.
Soaking fabric in water and letting it dry repeatedly weakens the fibers. Over time, delicate material becomes brittle.
By sunrise, I had a plan.
When Lisa tried the dress on again, I smiled and nodded as she admired herself in the mirror.
“See? I knew you’d come around! So, the dress is in your hands?”
I nodded.
She had no idea what was coming.
That afternoon, I visited a thrift store with Willow—my best friend since before my mother passed. More like a sister than a friend.
The place smelled of old fabric and dust, racks of dresses packed so tightly their lace and tulle tangled together.
I exhaled, gripping my list of requirements: “Long sleeves. Lace. Beading. Something that looks expensive but isn’t.”
Willow sighed.
“Come on,” I muttered, moving toward another rack. “Let’s find Lisa something worthy of her.”
That night, after everyone had gone to bed, I made the switch.
My mother’s dress remained locked safely in my room. In its place? The cheap thrift-store replica.
The fake dress was about to be soaked, dried, and weakened—again and again—over the next several nights.
Lisa had no clue. She thought I was being sweet. Dutiful.
Then came the wedding day.
Guests filled the venue. Lisa beamed as she slipped into the weakened dress, completely unaware.
The music began. She walked down the aisle.
And just as she reached my father—
Rip.
A collective gasp filled the room.
The fabric at her side split clean open.
I stepped forward, arms crossed.
“I guess that’s what happens when you wear something old…”
Silence. My dad looked horrified. Guests whispered amongst themselves. Children giggled behind their hands. Lisa’s picture-perfect moment was unraveling—literally.
Lisa refused to speak to me after that.
My dad? Furious. But I told him the truth.
In the end, they still got married. Just not how Lisa had envisioned. No grand ceremony. No stunning dress. Just a quiet courthouse wedding. I didn’t even attend.
And my mom’s dress?
It’s still mine.
