For weeks, I crocheted my daughter, who is ten years old, the ideal Maid of Honour garment. When she put it on, she spun about like a princess from a fairy tale. However, I was devastated to learn what my future mother-in-law had done to it the day before my wedding. Karma took care of the rest, and I never forgiven her.
After a breakup, love feels different. It’s hopeful yet cautious. I believed that I would never be happy again when my first marriage ended five years ago. When we moved into our small flat, Lucy, who was just five at the time, put her little fingers around mine.
She whispered, “It’s okay, Mommy,” on that first night. That’s Lucy for you: “It’s our cosy castle now.” When the world seemed unstable, she was always my rock.
Lucy’s viewpoint was so crucial when Ryan entered our lives two years ago. It was difficult for her to trust me after everything we had been through together. As I watched them assess each other in the park during their first meeting, I held my breath and my palms started to perspire. Would he be liked by her? Would he see the same amazing little spirit that had been my pillar of support through everything that I saw in her?
I didn’t have to be concerned. Ryan listened to Lucy as if she were sharing the secrets of the universe with him, asking follow-up questions that made her smile with pride, and within minutes he was pushing her on the swings while she giggled about her most recent art project, something involving glitter and what she called “rainbow dragons.”
She later said, “He’s nice, Mom,” with chocolate ice cream smeared down the front of her favourite purple shirt and on her chin. “He doesn’t talk to me like I’m a baby.”
At that moment, I realised… genuinely believed that our family would be ideal.
Lucy was more thrilled than I was six months ago when Ryan proposed. She had been aware of the scheme and reportedly accompanied him on a “secret mission” to the jewellery store to help him choose the ring.
With a small kangaroo-like bounce on her toes, she said, “Do I get to wear a fancy dress?”
I said, “Better than that, sweetie,” as my heart grew larger with the kind of love that makes your chest hurt in the nicest way. “You’re going to be my maid of honour.”
She opened her eyes wider than I had ever seen them. “Really? Like a grown-up lady?”
“Exactly like that.” I gathered her in my arms. “My most important grown-up lady.”
Since my high school guidance counsellor advised me to find a productive way to channel my restless energy when I was fifteen, I have been crocheting. It began as a method to calm the racing thoughts that kept me awake at night and as a way to do something with my hands when anxiety started to creep in. With the rhythmic movements as calming as a lullaby, it evolved into my therapy and meditation throughout the years. When everything else felt broken, it became my means of making something lovely.
I ran the softest pale lilac yarn through my fingers at three different craft stores before deciding on the ideal tone for Lucy’s frock. She had always liked fairy tales, so I spent hours sketching designs that included a delicate scalloped hem that would dance when she walked down the aisle, a high neckline for elegance, and bell sleeves.
I worked by lamplight in the silence of our small living room every night after she went to bed. Every row conveyed my hope for our fresh start, and every stitch carried my love for her in every loop. The outfit was turning into more than just thread and fabric. It was turning into a pledge.
It never occurred to me that someone would attempt to sabotage that pledge before Lucy had a chance to put it on.
She would enquire, “What are you making, Mom?” as she peered curiously over my shoulder and I hastily covered my work with a pillow.
I would say, “A surprise,” while keeping my work hidden behind my back as if I were the child rather than her. “But it’s going to be magical.”
Magical. For Lucy and all of us, that is what I wanted today to be. A new beginning encased in lilac yarn and sealed with affection.
However, Denise, Ryan’s mother, wasn’t afraid to voice her strong thoughts about any aspect of our wedding preparations. She questioned why we had chosen an outdoor setting when her church would have been a better fit, and she went into great detail about “proper ceremonies.”
At least three times, she criticised our private guest list and reminded us that members of her social circle would be “disappointed” if they were not invited. Citing some etiquette book she had read in 1987, she even recommended a formal sit-down dinner when we had planned a laid-back reception.
With that rehearsed smile that never quite reached her eyes, she had a way of giving her recommendations like orders, making it obvious that she understood what was best for everyone. I felt exhausted after every conversation, like if I had just escaped a courteous grilling.
That’s when I should have recognised the warning flags. However, I was so preoccupied with pleasing everyone that I failed to notice the most crucial hint as to Denise’s true potential.
Every time I gently pushed back, she would remark, “I just want what’s best for Ryan,” in a tone that made my skin crawl—that of a martyr. “After all, a wedding sets the tone for a marriage.”
I refrained from speaking. A great deal. I’m shocked it didn’t fall off completely because it’s so much.
After every heated exchange, Ryan reassured me, “She’ll come around,” as he massaged my shoulders and I let out my frustrations. I wanted to believe him, so I did.
Lucy tried on her completed garment four days prior to the wedding. Finally, the time has come. She slipped into it, and I held my breath while guiding her arms through the sleeves with trembling hands. The colour highlighted her eyes in a way that made her appear almost ethereal, and the fit was flawless. She appeared to be the fairy princess she had always imagined herself to be.
With her arms out and the scalloped hem cascading around her legs like water, she whirled before my bedroom mirror. “I look like a fairy princess maid!” she exclaimed in a high-pitched voice full of delight.
I forced myself to keep my composure as I blinked. “You look perfect, sweetheart. Absolutely perfect.”
I felt like I had given her everything as I watched her spin around in the dress I had sewn myself. I had no concept that it would all be taken away by someone in less than 48 hours.
Her shyness suddenly surfaced as she said, “Will everyone think I’m pretty?”
“Everyone’s going to think you’re the most beautiful Maid of Honour in the world, honey.”
The outfit was meticulously kept in my closet in a garment bag. In the days before the wedding, Lucy insisted on seeing it.
She would say, “Just to make sure it’s still there,”
I was preparing her breakfast in the kitchen the day before the wedding when I heard a scream that stopped me cold. After dropping the spatula, I sprinted to my bedroom. Lucy was trembling on the floor beside my wardrobe when I found her. She had a stack of purple yarn in her hands.
My legs buckled under me as though I had been hit. As my mind struggled to comprehend the destruction strewn across my bedroom carpet, I collapsed to the floor next to her and stared at what had once been her garment. It hadn’t been ripped or ruined in some unintentional accident. It had been meticulously unstitched, beginning at the back neckline and proceeding down with purposeful accuracy, stitch by stitch.
Every hour of labour and every cycle of love had been undone by someone who had sat in my bedroom, the haven of our house. They had taken their time, ensuring sure there was nothing left to save.
Lucy’s voice broke as she cried, “Mom,” “it’s gone. My dress is gone.”
As the reality struck me in waves, I drew her close to me while sobbing into her hair. Beyond the ringing in my ears, I was unable to talk or think. With the ruins of something lovely all around us, I simply held her while she sobbed.
Her tiny voice was muffled by my shirt as she muttered, “Who would do this?” against my shoulder. “Who would be so mean?”
I was aware. I knew exactly who would do this, for heaven’s sake. The woman who had criticised every decision we had made while grinning her trained smile. Not “appropriate” for her son’s wedding, according to the person who sewed the outfit herself.
An hour later, Ryan discovered us there, still lying on the floor with the purple yarn all around us. I was crying so hard that my eyes swelled. In my arms, Lucy had sobbed herself to sleep.
He enquired, “What happened?”
I felt empty inside as I gazed up at him. “Your mother happened.”
“What? No. Mom wouldn’t…”
I said, “Look at this,” pointing to the yarn pile. “This wasn’t an accident. Someone sat here and unravelled every single stitch… by hand. It would take hours.”
Ryan’s face turned white. “You think my mother did this?”
“Who else has been in our house? Who else has made it clear she disapproves of everything about this wedding?”
He combed his hair with his hands. “I need to call her.”
“No,” I uttered, my voice more forceful than my emotions. “I’ll call her.”
I dialled her number while my hands trembled. On the second ring, she answered. “Hello, Sophia. I hope you’re having a lovely day before your big event.”
“Denise,” I responded, struggling to maintain my composure. “Lucy’s dress is gone.”
Quiet. “Denise? Did you hear me?”
Her tone was calm and indifferent as she said, “Yes, I heard you.” “I’m sorry about that.”
“Sorry? That’s it? Someone destroyed something I spent weeks making.”
She stated, “I didn’t think it was appropriate,” without even acknowledging her role. “A homemade dress for your wedding party? This isn’t a school play, Sophia.”
For a moment, I was unable to breathe. “You did THIS? You actually did this to a 10-year-old child.”
“I thought Lucy would make a lovely flower girl. You gave her a title that doesn’t make sense for her age. I was just trying to help.”
“Help?” I was already trembling. “You DESTROYED something that meant everything to her.”
“I made a difficult decision. I thought once it was done, you’d see the reason and get her something more suitable.”
I ended the call. I could hardly hold the phone because my hands were shaking so much. I didn’t hurl objects or shout. I did, however, make a few phone calls. I started by calling Jenny, my photographer, who had taken progress photos of the garment as it was being fitted. Telling her, “I need those photos,” “All of them.”
I then gave my friend Mia, who has thousands of followers on her wedding inspiration page, a call. Saying, “I need a favour,”
I used three pictures of Lucy trying on her outfit and dancing with delight to create a straightforward, emotional post that night after she had gone to sleep. The completed gown hanging on a hook. And the yarn pile on the floor of my bedroom.
The description read: “I crocheted this Maid of Honour dress for my 10-year-old daughter. She twirled in it two days ago, so excited to be part of my second chance at love. Today, we found it in a pile of yarn. My future mother-in-law was displeased with it from the beginning. And then someone unravelled every stitch. But love can’t be undone.”
I pushed post after tagging Mia’s account. It had hundreds of shares in an hour. It was everywhere by daybreak.
My melancholy was reflected in the grey and overcast dawn of the wedding day. I had been up all night making Lucy a new dress. This time, it was constructed with the same affection, but it was simpler.
Denise showed up at the event decked out entirely in white. The shoes, the jacket, and the dress are all white. During the wedding of her son.
As pointed looks followed her every step and whispered whispers echoed across the room, the visitors’ reactions spoke for themselves. By the time my post reached our little town, everyone was aware of Denise’s identity and her actions.
As I was getting ready, she came up to me. She growled, “How dare you humiliate me like this?” “That post of yours has made me a laughingstock.”
I gazed at the image of her in the mirror. “I didn’t humiliate you, Denise. You did that all by yourself.”
“You had no right to air our family business publicly.”
“Family?” I asked, turning to her. “Family doesn’t destroy a child’s dreams out of spite.”
“I was trying to help…”
“You were trying to control. There’s a difference.”
In the doorway stepped Ryan. He had heard it all. When he said, “Mom, you need to leave,”
“Excuse me?”
“You’re not welcome at the reception. You don’t get to hurt my daughter and still expect a free meal.”
Denise’s cheeks flushed. “Your daughter? She’s not even…”
“She’s more my daughter than you are my mother right now,” Ryan said. “Leave. Now.”
Furious and grumbling about unappreciative kids, Denise walked out.
Lucy had the brightest smile I’ve ever seen as she carried my bouquet down the aisle in her beautiful attire. The audience cheered my little fairy princess maid and stood up.
When she got to me, she whispered, “I’m still magical, right Mom?”
Whispering back, “The most magical girl in the world,”
People who truly loved and supported us were present at the modest, personal ceremony, which was ideal in its simplicity. Pure love surrounded us as we made a lifelong commitment to one another, free from criticism or controversy that would have overshadowed our vows.
“Your post is still going viral,” Mia said when she discovered me at the reception. “People are messaging, asking if you take commissions.”
I chuckled. “Commissions? I just wanted justice for Lucy.”
“Well, you got that and more. Check your phone!”
My inbox was overflowing with messages from people who wanted to make unique costumes for their nephews, daughters, and grandchildren. They had all witnessed my tale and knew what love looked like when it was meticulously woven into each and every strand by hand.
My web store is doing really well six months later. I never thought I’d be so busy with my modest shop. Lucy assists me in packing orders and choosing colours, and I donate ten percent of every sale to charities that support children.
Yesterday, when she folded a purple outfit with care, she said, “This one is going to make someone really happy.”
“How do you know?”
“Because you made it with love. Just like you made mine.”
What about Denise? She was subtly urged to resign from her position as leader by her religious group. The locals refer to her as “that woman who destroyed the little girl’s dress.” She occasionally calls Ryan, but he hardly ever picks up.
I was recognised by a woman at the grocery store last week. She declared, “You’re the crochet mom,” “The one who stood up to that awful mother-in-law.”
I grinned. “I’m just a mom who loves her daughter.”
“Well, what you did was brave. My daughter saw your story and asked me to teach her to crochet. She wants to make something beautiful too.”
I informed Ryan about the encounter that evening. He said, “Any regrets?” “About exposing all this?”
I pictured Lucy sleeping in her bed, surrounded by new design concepts and yarn swatches. Our story made me think of all the little girls who would wear outfits crafted with love.
“Not one,” I replied. “Some battles are worth fighting. Especially when you’re fighting for love.”
Retaliation isn’t always the best kind of retaliation. It’s just about transforming your suffering into something beautiful and refusing to allow the brutality of another person define your tale. Justice also sometimes takes care of itself.
