When Emily’s stepmother steals the wedding dress her late mother left for her, she refuses to let it go. Betrayed by the one person who should have stood by her, she devises a plan—one that will make sure Sabrina gets exactly what she deserves. After all, some things should never be taken.
My mother died when I was thirteen.
It wasn’t supposed to happen that way. One moment, she was in the kitchen, humming while rolling out dough for blueberry pie, her voice drifting into the living room as she teased me about my untied shoelaces. The next moment—she was gone.
No warning. No long goodbye. Just an unbearable absence that hit like a sucker punch I never recovered from.
She had been my best friend, my safe place. And she left me one thing that became my most treasured possession: her wedding dress.
I still remember the day she gave it to me. She had unzipped the garment bag with reverence, her fingers brushing over the delicate lace as if she were touching a piece of her own heart.
“For my beautiful girl,” she had said softly, placing it in my hands, “so that a part of me will always be with you on your wedding day.”
At thirteen, marriage felt like a lifetime away, but I understood the gravity of the gift. I kept it zipped up in its protective bag, hidden in the back of my closet, untouched. It wasn’t just a dress, it was a promise.
And then my dad met her.
Sabrina.
Sabrina blew into our lives with an almost aggressive charm. She had a smile too wide, a laugh too loud, and an uncanny ability to insert herself into conversations that weren’t meant for her. Within weeks, she was making comments about how I “needed a strong female role model” and how “a girl can’t grow up without a mother’s touch.”
I bit my tongue. I wanted my dad to be happy. He had been so lonely after Mom died, and I knew she would have wanted him to find love again. But Sabrina didn’t just want to be my dad’s partner—she wanted to replace my mother.
The day she moved in, everything started to change. She redecorated the living room, boxed up Mom’s framed photos, and tucked away the little things we’d left out to remember her by. Within months, the house felt less like home and more like Sabrina’s personal showroom.
A year later, my dad proposed.
I didn’t love her, but it was his decision. I told myself to stay quiet. Maybe he saw something in her that I didn’t.
Then she started planning the wedding.
And that’s when things went from uncomfortable to unthinkable.
One evening, I came home later than usual. From the hallway, I heard laughter floating from my dad’s bedroom—Sabrina’s voice, high and giddy, and another woman’s voice I recognized as her sister’s, Brenda.
Something about the sound made my skin prickle.
The bedroom door was ajar, and curiosity—or dread—pulled me closer.
What I saw made my breath catch in my throat.
Sabrina was standing in front of the mirror, twirling slowly. Wearing my mother’s wedding dress.
Her hands smoothed over the beading. She adjusted the lace sleeves with delicate care, like she had any right to touch it at all.
Brenda clapped her hands together. “Oh my God, Sabrina! It’s perfect! Like it was made for you.”
The rage shot through me before I even realized I’d moved. I pushed the door open so hard it slammed against the wall.
“What the hell are you doing?!”
Sabrina spun around, startled. “Oh, sweetheart, I didn’t think you’d be home yet.”
“Take. It. Off. Now.”
She blinked at me, clearly irritated at my tone. “Relax. I was just trying it on. No big deal.”
“No big deal?” My voice cracked. “That dress is mine! My mom left it to me. It’s not yours.”
Her smile faltered, then returned—syrupy sweet and patronizing.
“Honey, it’s just a dress. 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? Symbolic, don’t you think?”
I stared at her, stunned by the audacity.
“That’s a lovely sentiment,” Brenda chimed in, oblivious.
It wasn’t lovely. It was theft wrapped in fake sentiment.
Just then, my dad walked in, briefcase in hand. Relief washed over me for half a second—until I saw the hesitation in his eyes.
“Dad,” I said, my voice shaking, “tell her this isn’t okay.”
He froze. For a moment, I thought he might actually stand up for me. But Sabrina slid her arm through his and smiled up at him like she already knew the outcome.
And I watched him cave.
“Your dad thinks it’s a wonderful idea,” she said smugly.
Something inside me broke. That night, I didn’t cry. I didn’t yell. I didn’t even confront them again.
I planned.
Hours later, I was in my room, laptop open, fingers trembling over the keyboard as I typed: how to weaken fabric without visible damage.
I read everything—bridal forums, costume design blogs, textile care guides—until I found it.
Repeatedly soaking delicate fabric in water and letting it dry makes it brittle. Eventually, it will tear under stress.
Perfect.
By morning, I had a plan. I would give her exactly what she wanted—a “wedding dress”—but it wouldn’t be my mother’s.
That afternoon, I called my oldest friend, Talia. We had known each other since before Mom died, and she was the only person I trusted with this.
We went to a thrift store, the kind that smelled faintly of dust and nostalgia. It took us two hours, but eventually, we found it: a long-sleeved, lace-covered, beaded dress that looked expensive at first glance but was cheap polyester underneath.
That night, when everyone was asleep, I made the switch. Mom’s dress went into the locked trunk in my room. The thrift store dress went into Sabrina’s garment bag.
And for the next few nights, I soaked it, dried it, and repeated. The lace grew weaker with every cycle, but looked untouched.
The morning of the wedding, the venue buzzed with chatter. I helped Sabrina into the sabotaged dress, smiling sweetly as I straightened the sleeves.
“You steamed it beautifully,” she said. “Now hand me my bouquet—your father’s waiting at the altar.”
I walked down the aisle first as a bridesmaid. I caught my dad’s eyes, but quickly looked away.
The music swelled. Sabrina began her grand entrance, smug as ever. She floated halfway down the aisle before it happened.
Rip.
The sound sliced through the music. Gasps rippled through the crowd.
Sabrina froze, looking down at the gaping tear along her side. She tried to cover it, but another seam gave way. A sleeve tore clean off. Beads spilled across the aisle like pearls snapping from a broken necklace.
“What’s happening?!” she shrieked.
I folded my arms. “Guess that’s what happens when you wear something old.”
Her head whipped toward me. “Your mother’s dress?! Why didn’t you—”
“Oh, Sabrina,” I interrupted. “That’s not my mom’s dress. I wouldn’t let you anywhere near it. This is… a replacement.”
The whispers grew louder. My dad’s face drained of color. Guests stared. A couple of children giggled behind their hands.
Sabrina’s perfect day unraveled stitch by stitch.
I walked out with my head high.
Sabrina didn’t speak to me after that. My dad confronted me later, furious.
“You let this happen?” he demanded.
“You let her wear Mom’s dress,” I shot back. “Or at least you were going to. I had to stop her. You gave me no choice.”
His anger faltered into shame. “I’m sorry. She saw it while I was looking at it one day. She… insisted. And I didn’t stop her.”
“No,” I said coldly. “You didn’t.”
Their wedding still happened, but without the fairy-tale moment she’d planned. A courthouse ceremony. No gown. No crowd.
And Mom’s dress?
It’s still mine. Safe. Waiting for the day I walk down the aisle—on my terms, with her memory exactly where it belongs.
