The morning of my wedding was supposed to be magical. I woke up early, heart fluttering, ready to marry the love of my life. But when I tiptoed into the living room to admire my dress one last time, the hanger swayed empty. My wedding gown—gone.
Panic surged. My family scrambled through closets, under beds, even outside. No one had moved it. No one had seen it. Except one person was missing: my twin sister, Stacey.
We’d always been different—fraternal twins with opposite personalities. She was bold, sharp, and ten minutes older. That ten minutes had always been her claim to superiority. But she’d seemed genuinely happy for me… until now.
With no time to spare, I slipped into an old prom dress—off-white, wrinkled, not what I’d dreamed of. I tried to smile through the heartbreak. Then, just as the music began and I prepared to walk down the aisle, the church doors opened.
Stacey stood there. In my wedding dress.
She walked the aisle like it was hers, bouquet in hand, heels clicking. Then she turned to the crowd and said, “This day was supposed to be mine.”
Her voice trembled as she confessed years of jealousy—how I always got the better job, the loving fiancé, the admiration. “I just wanted to feel special,” she said. “Just once.”
The room fell silent. My mother stood, walked to the altar, and took my hand. “This is Emily’s day,” she said firmly. “And hurting someone to feel seen is never the answer.”
Stacey’s façade cracked. She stepped aside, tears in her eyes, and sat alone in the back pew.
I walked the aisle in my backup dress, heart heavy but head high. The ceremony blurred by, but the ache lingered. Stacey left before the reception, still wearing my gown.
Later that night, she returned—makeup smudged, dress in hand, voice shaking. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered. “I didn’t know how else to cope.”
I didn’t respond. I couldn’t. But I saw her pain. And maybe, just maybe, that was the beginning of healing.
