My mom died when I was just thirteen. It was sudden, cruel, and the most painful thing I have ever lived through. One second, she was there, humming while making a blueberry pie; the next, she was gone.
But she was my best friend, and she left me something priceless: her wedding dress. I can still see her running her fingers over the lace, her eyes soft as she placed it in my hands. The note inside read: “For my beautiful daughter, this is so that a part of me will always be with you on your special day. –Mom.”
I treasured that dress like a sacred relic. Marriage felt a million years away, but I kept it zipped up in its protective bag, untouched, waiting for the day I would finally wear it.
Then my dad met Lisa. She came into our lives like a whirlwind, smiling too much and inserting herself into every conversation. She made ignorant comments about how I needed a “strong female figure” and “a mother’s touch.” I tried to be happy for my lonely dad; he deserved to find love again. Nobody would ever replace my mother, but we knew she would want us to be happy.
Except that Lisa didn’t just want to be his new wife; she wanted to erase my mother’s memory. The moment she moved in, things changed. She started redecorating, boxing up the few things of Mom’s we left out. Eventually, my home stopped feeling like mine.
Dad proposed after only a year. It was his life, his decision. But when Lisa started planning the wedding, I should have known she’d take it too far. I never expected this level of disrespect.
I came home late one evening, hearing laughter from my dad’s bedroom. It was Lisa and her sister, Greta, their voices high and excited. The entire energy of the house felt wrong. The door was cracked open just enough for me to see inside.
My entire world stopped.
Lisa was wearing my mom’s wedding dress. She twirled in front of the mirror, adjusting the lace and smoothing the beading like it belonged to her—like it wasn’t a sacred piece of my mother’s memory.
“Oh, my God. It’s perfect, Lisa! It was made for you, honey! Wow!” Greta exclaimed.
“What the hell are you doing?!” I slammed the door open, my entire body shaking with rage.
“Oh, sweetheart,” she said, spinning toward me. “I didn’t think you’d be home yet!”
“Take. It. Off. Now!”
She sighed, treating me like a child throwing a tantrum. “I was just trying it on. No big deal. Honey, it’s just a dress,” she said, her smile turning patronizing. “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? I think the symbolism is beautiful… don’t you?”
“That’s a lovely way of looking at it,” Greta chimed in.
I saw red. This wasn’t a symbol of honor; it was an act of pure theft and disrespect. I turned to my dad, who had just walked in, briefcase in hand. He was my last hope. “Dad. Say something. This isn’t okay!”
For a brief second, I saw hesitation in his eyes, a flicker of guilt, but then Lisa looped her arm through his, smiling up at him. Just like that, he caved.
“Your dad thinks it’s a wonderful idea,” she tilted her head, eyes gleaming with triumph.
Something inside me snapped. I knew, right then, that I had lost him.
I could have cried or screamed that night, but I didn’t. Instead, I sat in my dark room, my laptop open, fingers shaking. My search history looked unhinged: How to weaken fabric? How to ruin lace without visible damage? How to make a dress fall apart?
Finally, I found something promising: Soaking delicate fabric in water and letting it dry repeatedly weakens the fibers, making the material brittle. It was perfect. Not noticeable at first glance, but the moment Lisa moved too much, the seams would split. The fabric would tear.
By the time the sun started creeping through my curtains, I had a plan. I swallowed my fury and played the part of the mature stepdaughter. I pretended I had accepted it.
“I’m okay with it, Lisa,” I said in the kitchen. “I thought about it, and I guess your reasoning does make sense.”
She was surprised. “I’ll have coffee, then can we try the dress on again?”
I nodded. I helped her, murmuring, “Oh, it’s perfect.” I offered, “We have a few days before the wedding. I’ll have it steamed so it’s pristine for the ceremony, okay?”
“See? I knew you’d come around! So, the dress is in your hands?” she beamed.
She had absolutely no idea.
My friend, Willow, and I went to a thrift store. I told her what I needed: “Long sleeves. Lace. Beading. Something that looks expensive but isn’t.” I confessed how hurt I was. “I just… I thought my dad would stand up for Mom. He let Lisa steal it. It’s like she’s trying to erase her.”
“She can’t erase your mom, Summer. Lisa will never be her,” Willow assured me.
“Come on,” I muttered, squaring my shoulders. “Let’s find Lisa something worthy of her.”
That night, when the house fell asleep, I made the switch. My mother’s dress stayed locked safely away in my room. The cheap replica Willow and I had found took its place. The replica I then soaked, dried, and weakened every night leading up to the wedding.
On the morning of the wedding, guests filled the venue. Lisa slipped into the fake dress, blissfully unaware. “You did such a good job steaming this, Summer,” she praised me.
As a bridesmaid, I walked down the aisle first. I locked eyes with my father—he had become a stranger.
The music began. Lisa made her grand entrance, smug as ever, practically floating down the aisle, clutching my dad’s arm. She looked like she had won.
And just as she reached him… Rip.
A gasp echoed through the room. The fabric at her side split clean open.
Lisa froze. As she moved to cover herself, there was another, larger rip. One sleeve tore, the lace unraveling. Beads started popping off, skittering across the floor like tiny white lies coming undone. The dress was disintegrating, exactly as I planned.
“What’s happening?!” Lisa shrieked.
I stepped forward, arms crossed. “I guess that’s what happens when you wear something old…”
“Your mother’s dress?! Why didn’t you warn me we needed a lining or something?”
“Oh, Lisa. That’s not my mom’s dress.” Her head snapped toward me, face burning red.
“What did you do?” she bellowed.
“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. Lisa clutched at the falling-apart dress. Her perfect moment was completely undone.
I walked out of that ceremony with my head held high.
Lisa refused to speak to me afterward. My dad was furious, but I told him the truth. “You allowed her to wear Mom’s dress, even after Mom left it for me! You gave me no choice!”
“I’m sorry, Summer,” he admitted. “She bulldozed her way into it. I was feeling nostalgic, looking at your mom’s dress, and Lisa walked in and wanted it.”
“And you didn’t stop her?” I asked.
In the end, their wedding happened. It wasn’t as planned. No big ceremony. No grand dress. Just them, at a courthouse, in silence. I didn’t even go.
And my mom’s dress? It’s still mine, waiting for the day I wear it. I may add an extra layer of lining now that I know my way around preserving them.
