My mom died when I was thirteen.
It wasn’t supposed to happen that way. One moment she was here—laughing, telling me to tie my shoelaces, humming in the kitchen as she made blueberry pie. And the next?
She was gone.
It was sudden. Cruel. The most painful thing I had ever experienced. But even in death, she left me something priceless.
Her wedding dress.
I still remember how she ran her fingers over the delicate lace, her eyes soft and full of love as she placed it in my hands.
“For my beautiful daughter,” she had written in a note, tucking it gently into the fabric. “So a part of me will always be with you on your special day.”
At thirteen, marriage felt like a lifetime away. But I treasured that dress. I kept it safe, zipped inside its protective bag, waiting for the day I would wear it.
Then, my dad met Lisa.
Lisa swept into our lives like a whirlwind. She smiled too much, laughed too loudly, and inserted herself into conversations that had nothing to do with her. She made little comments about how I needed a “strong female figure” and how “a girl can’t grow up properly without a mother’s touch.”
I was polite. I tried to be happy for my dad. He had been lonely, and I knew my mother wouldn’t have wanted him to be alone. But Lisa didn’t just want to be his wife.
She wanted to erase my mom.
The moment she moved in, everything changed. The house started looking less like home. Family pictures disappeared. Mom’s favorite vase? Gone. Her books? Boxed up. My safe space felt like it was vanishing piece by piece.
Then came the engagement.
Dad proposed after just one year of dating Lisa. I stayed quiet, telling myself that it was his choice. I didn’t have to like it, but I wasn’t going to stand in the way of his happiness.
I should have known Lisa would take it too far.
But I never expected this.
One evening, I came home late. Laughter echoed from my dad’s bedroom. Lisa’s voice rang high and excited.
Another voice joined in—her sister, Greta.
Something felt off. The energy in the house was… wrong.
The bedroom door was cracked open just enough for me to see inside.
And that’s when my world stopped.
Lisa was wearing my mother’s wedding dress.
She twirled in front of the mirror, adjusting the lace sleeves, smoothing the beading like it was hers. Like it wasn’t a sacred memory of my mom.
Greta clapped her hands.
“Oh my God, Lisa! It’s perfect! It’s like it was made for you, honey!”
A burning rage erupted in my chest. I shoved the door open.
“WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING?!”
Lisa spun around, her eyes wide.
“Oh, sweetheart,” she said, her voice light. “I didn’t think you’d be home yet!”
“Take. It. Off. Now.”
My whole body trembled with anger.
She sighed, like I was some brat throwing a tantrum. “I was just trying it on. No big deal.”
“No big deal?! That dress was for ME! My mom left it for ME! It’s not yours!”
Lisa’s expression shifted. The fake sweetness in her eyes turned cold.
“Honey, it’s just a dress,” she said. “Besides, wouldn’t it be beautiful? Me wearing your mother’s dress to marry your father? Such a lovely way to honor her memory. Don’t you think?”
Her sister chimed in. “That’s such a beautiful idea!”
I saw red. This wasn’t about honoring my mother. This was about erasing her.
At that moment, my dad walked in. My last hope.
“Dad. Say something! This isn’t okay!”
He froze. For a second, guilt flickered in his eyes. But then Lisa looped her arm through his, smiling up at him, silently daring him to disagree.
And just like that, he caved.
“Your dad thinks it’s a wonderful idea,” Lisa said, smirking.
Something inside me snapped.
I could’ve screamed. Cried. Begged.
Instead, I sat in my room that night, my laptop glowing in the darkness, my fingers trembling as I typed.
How to weaken fabric?
How to ruin lace without visible damage?
How to make a dress fall apart?
I scrolled through article after article. Most were useless—staining techniques, stretching fabric.
“Not good enough,” I muttered.
Then, I found it.
Soaking delicate fabric in water and letting it dry weakens the fibers. Repeating the process multiple times makes it brittle.
I smiled.
It was perfect.
The next morning, I played the part of the mature stepdaughter.
“I thought about it,” I told Lisa over breakfast. “And I guess it makes sense. If it makes you happy, you can wear the dress.”
Lisa beamed. “See? I knew you’d come around!”
She had no idea what I was about to do.
Over the next few nights, I made the switch. I locked my mother’s dress safely in my room. The cheap replica I found at a thrift store took its place.
Every night, I soaked it. Let it dry. Soaked it again. The fabric weakened, bit by bit.
The morning of the wedding, Lisa slipped into the dress, grinning from ear to ear.
“You did such a great job steaming it, Summer!” she said.
“Oh, you have no idea.”
The wedding started. Guests filled the venue. My dad stood at the altar, waiting.
Lisa walked down the aisle, basking in the attention.
And then—
RIP.
Gasps echoed through the room.
Lisa froze.
Another rip. Her sleeve split. Beads popped off, rolling across the floor.
The fabric at her side tore open.
Lisa shrieked, trying to hold the dress together. “WHAT’S HAPPENING?!”
I stepped forward, arms crossed. “I guess that’s what happens when you wear something old.”
Lisa’s face turned red. “YOUR MOTHER’S DRESS?! YOU KNEW IT NEEDED A LINING! WHY DIDN’T YOU TELL ME?!”
I smirked. “Oh, Lisa. That’s not my mom’s dress.”
Silence.
Lisa’s head snapped toward me, eyes wild. “WHAT DID YOU DO?!”
“I wouldn’t trust you with something so precious. So, I found you a little… replacement.”
The venue burst into murmurs. Guests whispered, children giggled. My dad looked like he wanted to disappear.
Lisa clutched at the disintegrating dress, humiliated.
I walked out, my head held high.
Lisa never spoke to me again.
My dad? Furious. But I told him the truth.
“You let her steal something that belonged to me. You left me no choice.”
He sighed. “She saw the dress. She wanted it. I didn’t know how to stop her.”
“You didn’t even try.”
Their wedding still happened. No big ceremony. No grand dress. Just a courthouse.
And my mom’s dress?
It’s still mine. Waiting for the day I wear it.
And this time, I’ll make sure it’s preserved—because some things aren’t meant to be stolen.
