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On the morning of my wedding, my stepmother threw aside my late mother’s attire, but my dad and a generous neighbour saved the day from ending the way she had intended.
Rachel is my name. At the age of 25, one loss and one dream that I couldn’t let go of had influenced my life. Something inside of me was shattered when I lost my mother to cancer when I was 14.
She was humming in the kitchen one week while I was still brushing my hair before school and working on my homework. Then she was gone. I found it incomprehensible that life could change so drastically. I recall hearing silence when I got home from school. Not the consoling sort. It’s the scary type that tells you that someone you love won’t return.
I kept holding on to the items she left behind after the burial. The curtains still smelt of her. Recipe cards in drawers had her immaculate calligraphy filling the margins. Her humour and voice were preserved in the antique picture frames that lined the corridor. I would occasionally put my ear to her wardrobe door to act as though she was getting ready for the day.
I opened her wardrobe one afternoon when the house was too quiet and I was feeling really sad. One by one, I put her rings over my fingers after running my fingers over her clothes.
Then I discovered it. Her bridal gown was zipped into a garment bag at the far rear and concealed beneath coats and scarves.
Lace and satin. Gentle yet powerful. and ageless.
As though I could still feel her heart pounding through it, I held it to my chest. I vowed to myself right then, standing by myself, the last of her aroma still clinging to the fabric.
I’m going to wear this when I get married. For her, I’ll wear it. She will accompany me down the aisle.
It was my last request, not hers. My method of paying tribute to the love she gave me and preserving her during the most important times.
My dad got married again three years later.
Sandra entered our lives at that point, with her cold lipstick grins and quiet words. She didn’t appear unkind at first. She brought home candles that smelt of lavender or linen and engaged in courteous conversation.
It wasn’t what she said, but rather the way she walked around the house, as though it weren’t my anymore, that made her chuckle softly during dinner and say things like, “Oh, Rachel, you’re so grown-up already.”
It began modestly.
From the mantel disappeared a framed picture of Mom and me at the county fair. I enquired about it.
Sandra shrugged gently. “Oh, I thought the shelf looked too crowded,” she said. “I put it away for safekeeping.”
Then came the porcelain vase that usually sat in the dining room, the one Mom had chosen on a road trip. Lost.
Sandra told me, “It had a crack, Rachel,” as if I were foolish for bringing up the subject. “Best to throw it out before it shatters everywhere.”
Subsequently, the pillows Mom sewed while undergoing chemotherapy were the soft, embroidered items that gave the couch a homely feel. Sandra also threw those out.
“They were too old-fashioned. Don’t you think the living room looks fresher now?”
Her tone was always even and logical, as if she were doing me a favour. Week after week, more and more of Mom vanished, to be replaced by hotel-like objects that smelt like catalogues.
Next came the curtains. Mom had picked the ones with flowers. They were replaced with antiseptic, grey draperies. Sandra remarked, “These look more modern,” grinning.
Mom’s cookbooks vanished from the shelf as well. Sandra whispered, “Outdated recipes,” as she stirred noodles.
The bedspread that was still smelling like Mom’s shampoo? With a simple shrug, Sandra declared it “ruined in the wash.”
The wedding portrait, which showed Mom and Dad grinning in the sun shortly after exchanging vows, vanished off the wall as well. A picture of Sandra and Dad on their honeymoon, smiling on a beach while sporting similar sunglasses, took its place.
I wanted to shout, but Dad didn’t hear me. He never stopped working. Sandra had already made the transitions with a smile by the time he got home. She would simply bend her head and give me a kind, condescending remark if I spoke.
“Sweetheart, you’re still grieving. I understand. But it’s been years. You’ll adjust.”
I was powerless to stop her from erasing my mother, room by room.
One treasured item, however, remained safe: Mom’s bridal gown. Tightly zipped and wrapped like a treasure, I concealed it at the back of my closet. I occasionally looked to make sure she hadn’t touched it. And every time, I whispered, “Not this. Never this,” as I ran my fingertips over the lace.
Years went by. I obtained a job, completed college, and established a life.
Daniel then arrived.
I had never dated anyone like him. Warm and steady, he was the type of person who listens with all of his heart. I realised within weeks that I could trust this person when we met at a friend’s game night.
I said “yes” before he could finish his statement as he dropped down on one knee in the park where we first shared a kiss.
I knew what I would wear the instant he slipped the ring onto my finger.
There was no argument at all. I had something waiting that no glitzy store garment could touch. Mom’s gown was supposed to be mine. In the dress she wore, I was about to walk down the aisle towards the type of love she had always felt I deserved.
I stood barefoot in my room and shut the door the first time I tried it on. I trembled when I unzipped the bag. The fabric, still shining from all these years, slid out. I walked slowly and respectfully into it.
It fit flawlessly. No need for tailoring. Like it was crafted specifically for me.
I was gasping for air as I turned to face the mirror. I saw her instead of just myself. Through my eyes, I caught Mom grinning. Tears streamed down my face. Saying in a whisper, “Mom, you’re with me.”
Sandra entered, but I didn’t hear her.
She crossed her arms and stood in the doorway, glancing at the gown as if it were dirt.
Her lip twisted, “Really, Rachel? That old thing?” “You’ll embarrass yourself. Brides wear new gowns. Modern gowns. Not… rags from the attic.”
“It’s not a rag. It’s Mom’s.” I pressed the cloth closer to me.
She laughed. “Do you even hear yourself? You’re going to walk into your own wedding in that relic and drag our entire family’s name through the mud. People will whisper that you’re cheap, that you couldn’t even afford a proper gown. You’ll shame all of us, Rachel. Is that really how you want to start your marriage?”
Even though her words were harsh, I didn’t recoil.
“I don’t care what people whisper,” I replied. “I’m wearing this dress. That’s final.”
Her face flashed with something dark. She said softly.
She mumbled, “You’ll regret this,” before turning abruptly and walking away.
She moved through the home like a shadow in the days before the wedding. Drawers slammed more forcefully. Cups clattered more loudly. There was judgement in every breath she took. I paid her no attention. Writing vows, completing seating arts, and organising a life with Daniel were more vital tasks for me to concentrate on. I shut her out.
Then my wedding morning arrived.
I smiled nervously as I opened my wardrobe. I grabbed the clothing bag with my hands.
It was deserted.
My heart struck my ribs hard. I prayed that I had somehow missed it as I gazed into space. However, it was absent. The dress was gone.
I ripped the room to pieces. Clawed through the laundry, flipped the bed, and tore through drawers. However, I couldn’t find anything. Panicked sobbing racked my chest as I fell to my knees.
Then I heard her.
“Looking for something?”
Sandra folded her arms and leaned smugly against the doorframe.
My voice broke. “Where is it?”
Her eyes gleamed. “The trash. Where it belongs. You should be thanking me, Rachel. That old rag would’ve humiliated you in front of every guest today.”
I was unable to think or breathe. My knees gave way under me. I gripped the empty bag with a heaving sensation.
I said, “I can’t do it,” more to myself than to her. “I’ll cancel everything. I can’t get married without my mom’s dress.”
How long I sat there is a mystery to me. The minutes were hazy. It was too painful to talk through.
The door was then knocked on
I was startled out of my reverie by the knock. My heart faltered, and I momentarily stopped.
Don’t let Sandra again, please.
I prepared myself by wiping my puffy cheeks and using shaky hands to pull the door open.
It wasn’t her, though.
Our elderly neighbour from two houses down, Mrs. Carter, was there. She had silver-flecked hair put up in a bun, a gentle face that always made me think of garden gloves and lemon pie, and she was in her late sixties. However, she appeared agitated and breathless today. She held a big bag of clothes to her chest as if it were made of glass.
Then she exclaimed, “Rachel!” “I found this in the trash this morning. I couldn’t believe someone would throw it away. It looked too important.”
When my knees gave way, I grabbed for the doorframe for support. I was unable to even talk. Too scared to hope, I just gazed at the bag in her hands.
Mrs. Carter came softly inside and gave it to me. I shook my fingers while I unzipped it.
And there it was. Mom’s gown.
It was no longer immaculate. The hem had slight brownish smudges, most likely from where it had touched the trash can or the floor of the alley. However, it remained. Mine yet.
I let forth a sob from my throat. I pressed the dress close to me and buried my face in the comfortable material.
Whispering, “You… you saved it,” I said.
Mrs. Carter spoke in a loving, low voice as her eyes softened. “I couldn’t ignore it, sweetheart. I thought it was special.”
“You’re so kind.”
“And as for the stains, I think I know what to do. Can I have baking soda, vinegar, and a little patience from your side, dear?”
I gave a small smile and nodded.
The stains were removed in a matter of minutes when Mrs. Carter began to work.
The lace appeared flawless and delicate, as if time had not touched it, and the satin glistened in the sun like water.
My tears would not cease. No more tears of sadness. Just relief and thankfulness gushing out simultaneously. “Thank you… I don’t even know what to say.”
“You don’t have to say anything,” she said, giving my arm a light squeeze. “You’re the one who kept it safe all this time, Rachel. I just cleaned it. But this dress? It was always meant for you.”
I hugged the cloth to my chest as if it were a lifeline and nodded.
It all felt different. Underneath the pain and worry of before, there was something more powerful. A silent, increasing power.
Sandra lost.
The commotion of the morning had subsided into a blur by the time the ceremony started. There were many visitors at the church. As folks sat down, a gentle melody played. It was not nerves that made my stomach turn. All I wanted to do was watch Sandra’s response.
With her chin tipped up and her grin practiced, she sat close to the front. She appeared to be waiting for a show for which she believed she had written the conclusion.
With a whisper loud enough for a few people to hear, she leaned towards one of her pals and said, “I can’t wait to see what she ended up wearing. Hopefully something decent.”
The doors then opened.
The church was filled with organ music. Everyone pivoted. As a daughter bringing her mother’s love into a new life, I came forward with a bouquet in hand, wrapped in the satin and lace my mother had previously worn.
The seats echoed with gasps.
Daniel was standing at the altar, and as soon as he saw me, his face broke. His eyes were glazed, his mouth was open, and his entire body surged forward as if he was eager to meet me halfway. Dad was standing next to him, his eyes full of emotion, his hand to his lips.
What about Sandra? She became motionless. Her grin dimmed. She gripped the pew’s edge tightly, as if she needed it to keep her balance. Her gaze flitted from the gown to my face, uncertainty, rage, and disbelief chasing each other across her face.
Around her, murmurs blossomed.
“Isn’t that her mother’s dress?”
“I thought Sandra said it was gone.”
“She looks beautiful…”
Sandra’s cheeks turned scarlet. She tried to regain her composure by adjusting her posture, but the mask had crumbled. And it was seen by all.
I kept my eyes off of her. Not once. Daniel looked at me as if I were the only thing in the universe, and I continued to stare at him. Each step down that aisle was a silent act of resistance and love.
The whole church was humming by the time I arrived at the altar. Sandra was no longer a topic of conversation. They were discussing love, legacy, and a daughter who had worn her mother’s robe after years of preserving it as if it were priceless.
Sandra sat back in silence, astonished. Thinking she had finally won, she had thrown the clothing away. She didn’t rely on Mrs. Carter, though. She didn’t believe that love could defeat authority.
By the time I stood at the altar wearing Mom’s dress, everything had changed, even if the morning of my wedding had almost broken me. I was unaware at the time that Mrs. Carter had gone straight to Dad and told him everything Sandra did while I was getting dressed.
Dad’s chest grew with more than just fatherly pride when I entered the reception hall wearing Mom’s gown, glowing, shaky, but proud. It was remorse, understanding, and silent determination.
When the music subsided and everyone sat down at the reception following the dances and pictures, Dad stood up.
He appeared anxious. He lifted his glass of champagne, which trembled a little. The room fell silent.
“I want to say something about my daughter,” he said.
Everyone turned, silent and anticipatory, towards him.
“Rachel, you are the strongest person I know. When I saw you today, walking down the aisle in your mother’s dress, I realised something I should’ve seen years ago: that love doesn’t fade. It doesn’t get thrown away. It lives on in us. In our choices. And in our memories.”
For a little moment, his voice became thicker.
“Your mother would be so proud of you. And I am, too.”
The room exploded in applause. Guests stood and cheered as glasses clinked. The servers even stopped to listen.
Daniel gave my hand a squeeze. He never took his eyes off mine.
However, Sandra was motionless across the room. Her eyes said louder than words, yet her expression was unreadable. She had expected to be admired, to be the new matriarch that everyone looked at at the wedding. Rather, she only heard my mother’s name, not her own.
The whispers began once more. People were whispering to each other and looking at her. A few gave a headshake. I could tell she understood it too, based on the way she began to glance about.
Nothing revolved around her anymore.
She let out a loud cry and abruptly pulled back her chair. The room became quiet once more.
Sandra turned and walked away without saying anything.
She didn’t give an explanation or even say goodbye. Her shoulders were rigid with embarrassment and rage as she just left the corridor, her heels clicking forcefully on the tile.
We learnt later that evening that she had gone home, packed her belongings, and departed. Not a word. No justification. Quietly and deliberately, she disappeared as she had come.
Dad and I sat on the porch a few days later. He appeared weary, yet oddly lighter.
he muttered, “I wonder what would have happened if Mrs. Carter hadn’t stepped in. She helped me realise what I had been missing for all these years.” It’s unbelievable that I was so blind. that I let Sandra to gradually destroy the lady I cherished.”
He stopped and shook his head.
“My eyes were awakened, Rachel, when I saw you wearing your mother’s robe. I should have preserved your mother’s memory and shielded you sooner. I promise not to let you down again, even though I’m so sorry I didn’t.
I extended my hand to grasp his, and we simply sat there as the wind blew through the trees and the past began to fade.
Sandra did not return, not even to pay a visit.
Her cookbooks were put back on the shelf, Mom’s picture was put back on the wall, the house felt warmer and Dad even asked me to show him how to make her pot roast, which he used to claim no one could make. The house was calm and filled with the proper memories once more, but occasionally I still expected to see Sandra moving things around or throwing out something “outdated.”
Although that wedding day nearly broke me, it also marked the return of my mother, not physically but in spirit, fortitude, and love.
Sandra attempted to obliterate her, but all she succeeded in doing was demonstrating the strength of my mother’s love, which I carried with me through every step, stitch, and vow—forever and ever.
