When Summer’s stepmom steals the wedding dress her late mother left for her, she refuses to let it slide. Betrayed by the one person who should have protected her, she hatches a plan… one that will ensure Lisa gets exactly what she deserves. After all, some things aren’t meant to be stolen.
My mom died when I was thirteen.
It wasn’t supposed to happen that way. One second, she was there, laughing, telling me to tie my shoelaces, humming in the kitchen while she made blueberry pie, and the next?
She was gone.
It was sudden, cruel, and the most painful thing I’ve ever experienced.
But she was my best friend. And she left me something priceless.
Her wedding dress.
I still remember how she ran her fingers over the lace, her eyes soft as she placed it in my hands.
For my beautiful daughter,
this is so that a part of me will always be with you on your special day.
—Mom
I was thirteen. Marriage felt a million years away, but I treasured that dress like a relic. I kept it zipped up in its protective bag, untouched, waiting for the day I’d finally get to wear it.
And then, my dad met her.
Lisa.
Lisa came into our lives like a whirlwind. She smiled too much and inserted herself into every conversation like she belonged with us. She made comments about how I needed a “strong female figure” and how “a woman can’t grow up without a mother’s touch.”
I tried to be happy for my dad. I knew he had been lonely. I wanted him to find love again. But no one could replace my mother.
Except that Lisa didn’t just want to be my dad’s new wife. She wanted to erase my mom.
The moment she moved in, things changed. She redecorated. She boxed up the few things of my mom’s that still occupied the house. Eventually, my home stopped feeling like mine.
And then came the engagement.
Dad proposed after just one year together. I didn’t say much. It was his life, his choice. I hoped maybe he saw something in her I didn’t.
But when Lisa started planning the wedding, I should have known she’d take it too far.
I came home late one evening to the sound of laughter coming from my dad’s bedroom. Lisa’s voice—high and excited. Another woman’s too. Greta, her sister.
Something felt wrong.
The bedroom door was cracked open. I looked inside.
Lisa was wearing my mom’s wedding dress.
She twirled in front of the mirror, touching the lace sleeves, smoothing the beading—like it belonged to her. Like it wasn’t a sacred piece of my mother’s memory.
Her sister clapped. “It’s perfect, Lisa! It’s like it was made for you!”
“What the hell are you doing?!” I shouted, bursting in.
Lisa gasped. “Oh sweetheart, I didn’t think you’d be home yet!”
“Take. It. Off.”
She sighed, annoyed. “I was just trying it on. No big deal.”
“No big deal?! That dress was for me! My mom left it for me!”
Her expression changed—eyes sharp, smile fake.
“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? The symbolism is beautiful… don’t you think?”
I turned to my dad, who had just walked in. My last hope.
“Dad. Say something. This isn’t okay!”
He froze. I saw guilt in his eyes—but only for a second. Then Lisa slid her arm through his.
And he caved.
“Your dad thinks it’s a wonderful idea,” she said smugly.
Something inside me broke. I could have cried. I could have screamed. But instead, I sat in my room in the dark, laptop open.
I searched:
How to weaken fabric?
How to ruin lace without visible damage?
How to make a dress fall apart?
Hours later, I had a plan.
Soaking fabric repeatedly and letting it dry weakens the fibers. Makes them brittle. Invisible at first. But the moment you move too much, seams split.
Perfect.
The next morning, I acted calm. Mature. “I’m okay with it, Lisa,” I said. She was thrilled.
“I’ll have the dress steamed for the ceremony,” I offered sweetly.
And she handed it over.
That night, Willow—my best friend, practically my sister—and I went to a thrift store. I looked for a dress that resembled my mom’s.
Lace. Long sleeves. Beading. Looks expensive. Isn’t.
We found the perfect one.
That night, when the house slept, I made the switch.
My mother’s real dress stayed locked in my room.
The cheap replica went into Lisa’s closet.
Then came the soaking. The drying. The weakening.
Over and over.
The morning of the wedding, Lisa slipped into the fake dress. She gushed about how beautifully I’d steamed it.
I was a bridesmaid. I walked down the aisle first, passing my father. He looked at me, but I looked away.
The music began.
Lisa walked down the aisle, glowing, triumphant.
And just as she reached my dad—
Rip.
A loud gasp echoed.
The fabric split at her side.
She froze, horrified.
She moved her arm.
Rip.
A sleeve tore. Beads popped off, scattering everywhere.
The dress began to fall apart—exactly as planned.
“What’s happening?!” she screamed.
I stepped forward. Calm.
“I guess that’s what happens when you wear something old.”
Her eyes widened. “Your mother’s dress?! Why didn’t you tell me it needed a lining?!”
“Oh Lisa,” I said gently. “That’s not my mom’s dress.”
Her face turned crimson. “What did you DO?!”
“I wouldn’t trust you with something that precious. So I got you a replacement.”
The entire venue was stunned. My dad looked horrified. Guests whispered. Kids giggled.
Lisa stood in the center of the aisle, her dress collapsing around her.
And I walked out of that ceremony with my head high.
Lisa didn’t speak to me afterward.
Dad was furious, but I told him:
“You let her wear Mom’s dress. After you knew it was meant for me. I had to do something.”
He admitted she bulldozed him. He didn’t stand up for Mom. He didn’t stand up for me.
The wedding still happened eventually—at a courthouse. No big dress. No audience. No me.
And my mom’s dress?
Still mine.
Still perfect.
Waiting for the day I wear it.
What would you have done?
