My mom died when I was thirteen.
It wasn’t supposed to happen that way. One second, she was there—laughing, telling me to tie my shoelaces, humming in the kitchen while she made blueberry pie. And the next? She was gone.
Sudden. Cruel. The most painful thing I’ve ever experienced.
She had been my best friend, my safe place, my home. And though I lost her far too soon, she made sure to leave me something priceless.
Her wedding dress.
I still remember the way she ran her fingers over the delicate lace, her eyes soft as she placed it in my hands.
For my beautiful daughter, this is so that a part of me will always be with you on your special day. -Mom
At thirteen, marriage felt a million years away, but I treasured that dress like a sacred relic. I kept it zipped in its protective bag, untouched, waiting for the day I’d finally get to wear it.
And then, my dad met her.
Lisa.
She swept into our lives like a tornado—too cheerful, too chatty, always inserting herself into our conversations like she had belonged there all along. She made ridiculous comments about how I needed a “strong female figure” and how “a girl can’t grow up properly without a mother’s touch.”
I tried to be polite. I wanted to be happy for my dad. He had been so lonely, and I knew my mom would have wanted him to find love again. But Lisa didn’t just want to be my dad’s new wife.
She wanted to erase my mom completely.
The moment she moved in, everything changed. She redecorated, boxing up the few things we had left of my mom. She took over every space in the house, her presence swallowing up every memory I had left.
And then came the engagement.
Dad proposed to her after just a year together. I kept my mouth shut, telling myself it wasn’t my place. Maybe, despite my issues with Lisa, my dad saw something in her that made him happy. Maybe it was his choice to make.
But when Lisa started planning the wedding, I should have known she’d take things too far.
I just never expected this.
One evening, I came home to the sound of laughter from my dad’s bedroom. Lisa’s voice, high and excited.
Another woman’s voice rang out—Greta. Lisa’s sister.
Something felt wrong. Off. Like the house had been invaded by an unfamiliar energy.
The door was cracked open just enough for me to see inside.
And when I did, my entire world stopped.
Lisa was wearing my mom’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 the last piece of my mother I had left.
Greta clapped. “Oh my God, Lisa! It’s perfect! It’s like it was made for you!”
I pushed the door open so hard it slammed against the wall. “What the hell are you doing?!”
Lisa spun around, gasping. “Oh, sweetheart! I didn’t think you’d be home yet!”
“Take. It. Off. Now.”
My entire body shook with rage.
Lisa sighed, tilting her head like I was being unreasonable. “I was just trying it on, honey. No big deal.”
“No big deal?!” My voice cracked. “That dress was meant for me! My mom left it for me! It’s not yours!”
Her expression shifted, that fake, condescending smile creeping onto her lips. “Honey, it’s just a dress. And wouldn’t it be a beautiful way to honor your mother? Me wearing it to marry your dad? Don’t you think the symbolism is lovely?”
“That’s a wonderful way of looking at it,” Greta chimed in.
I turned to my dad, who had just walked in, briefcase in hand. “Dad. Say something. This isn’t okay!”
For a moment, I saw hesitation in his eyes. A flicker of discomfort. But then Lisa linked her arm through his, smiling like she knew she had already won.
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 knew, right then, that I had lost him.
I could have cried that night. I could have screamed, shouted, begged.
But I didn’t.
Instead, I sat in my room, laptop open, fingers shaking over the keyboard.
How to weaken fabric?
How to make a dress fall apart?
My search history looked insane, but I didn’t care. And then, I found it.
Soaking fabric in water and letting it dry weakens the fibers. Repeating the process multiple times makes delicate material brittle.
Perfect.
Lisa was going to walk down that 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 stayed safe in my room, while the cheap thrift store replica took its place. I soaked it, dried it, weakened it. Every single night.
By the morning of the wedding, it was barely holding together.
Lisa beamed as she slipped into the fake dress. “You did such a good job steaming it, Summer!”
“Oh, Lisa. You have no idea.”
Being a bridesmaid, I walked down the aisle first. I locked eyes with my father for a moment, but then I looked away.
Lisa followed, her veil trailing behind her, walking like she had won some twisted game.
And just as she reached my dad—
Rip.
A gasp echoed through the room.
The fabric at her side split clean open.
Lisa froze.
Then, as she tried to adjust it, another rip. One sleeve tore. The lace unraveled. Beads popped off, skittering across the floor like tiny white lies coming undone.
“What’s happening?!” Lisa shrieked.
I stepped forward, arms crossed. “I guess that’s what happens when you wear something old.”
Lisa’s face burned red. “You didn’t tell me it was falling apart!”
“Oh, Lisa. That’s not my mom’s dress.”
Her head snapped toward me. “What did you do?!”
“I wouldn’t trust you with something that precious. So, I got you a little… replacement.”
The room fell silent. My dad looked mortified. Guests whispered. Children giggled. Lisa clutched at the disintegrating dress, her perfect moment crumbling around her.
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 told him the truth.
“You let her steal Mom’s dress. I had to do something. You left me no choice.”
In the end, they still got married. A courthouse wedding. No grand ceremony. No fancy dress. Just them, alone.
And my mom’s dress?
It’s still mine.
Waiting for the day I wear it.
