When my stepsister walked down the aisle wearing the wedding dress that my mother had worn, I believed I had a safe place to store it in my closet. Only one rule was in place: she could try it on, but she could never actually wear it. They were still dishonest with me. First, I was taken aback, but then I gathered my composure and made certain that everyone was aware of the specifics of what they had done.
When my mother d.i.e.d. C.a.n.cer abducted her most viciously, she did it immediately and ruthlessly, without giving us any time to prepare. I was sixteen years old at the time.
Her passing left a void in my heart that I have never been able to completely fill the void that she left behind. You understand what I mean if you have ever experienced the loss of someone you loved. To go through life with an unseen limp is like walking through life with a limp that no one sees, but you feel it with every step you take.
She left me only a few things in her will, but they were priceless beyond all measure: a stack of her notebooks that were full of untidy handwriting and unfiltered honesty; a silver locket that contained a photograph of my father from a time when his hair was thick and his grin was unguarded; and most importantly, her wedding dress.
After being preserved in a white box that had been lined with tissue paper, the dress was kept in the closet of the bedroom that I had when I was a child. Over the course of many years, the ivory lace had become more supple and had taken on a creamy hue. Additionally, it showed the slightest hint of her lavender perfume. When I was feeling the most homesick for her, I would raise the lid, run my fingertips over the intricate embroidery, and try to picture her voice saying something.
With a grin on her face, she would explain, “When I was wearing that dress, I felt like a queen.” “I wouldn’t let anything in the world stop me,” she said.
Those garments were more than just fabric. It became a memory. Connectivity was the key. It was a piece of optimism for a future in which I could one day be able to wear it down an aisle toward someone who loved me in the same manner that my father had loved her in the past.
However, life had other things in store for us.
The remarriage of my father occurred two years after the death of my mother.
The two of them first met at work. She had a smile that appeared to be flawless but never quite reached her eyes, and she gave off an air of polished efficiency. However, if you looked closely enough, you would notice that she exuded a weird emptiness, despite the fact that she usually had everything in order.
Harper, Marjorie’s kid, was one year older than I was. I was the younger of the two. Harper was the kind of person who thrived in the spotlight; she was vivacious, outspoken, and magnetic. Upon entering a room, she exuded an air of completeness. I, on the other hand, was reserved, introspective, and more at ease with books than I was with large groups of people. The mixture of water and oil was poured into the same glass.
It didn’t matter how hard my father churned, we didn’t mix together like a ready-made family. He wanted us to be like a ready-made family.
Even so, I did not put up a fight. I was about eighteen years old and on the point of enrolling in college. The house where I spent my childhood became more symbolic than practical, but I nevertheless kept my belongings there, including the garment that belonged to my mother, which I carefully tucked away. In my opinion, it was risk-free. So naive of me.
During my time as a college student, I would pay a visit during the holidays, and I would constantly inspect my room, as if I were a curator protecting a rare exhibit. It was always there, patiently waiting for the outfit to be found.
With Marjorie, I maintained a certain distance. As Harper filled the kitchen with rumors about males and parties, I listened with a courteous bow and nodded my head in agreement. Aside from the fact that we all claimed to be a family, we were actually strangers who were only connected by tenuous relationships.
Then came the visit that resulted in a complete transformation.
As I was in my final year of college, I had the opportunity to spend a long weekend at home. During the time that I was pouring juice in the kitchen, Marjorie, whose grin was as perfect as it had ever been, came in.
While she was adding sugar into her coffee, she made the announcement, “Harper is getting married.” We had the idea that it would be enjoyable to have a look at the dress that your mother wore. To serve as a source of motivation. Aiming to acquire a sense of style.”
The glass fell out of my grasp, and I firmly placed it down on the table. Not at all.
The word was more pointed than I had planned, but it was necessary for it to be pointed.
I was surprised to see my father standing behind her with that recognizable expression, the one that pleaded with me in silence to avoid making things more difficult.
“It’s time,” he said. “Come on.” Not much more than a fitting. You are going to do so. There will be no consequences for it.”
When I saw it, I snapped, “It’s not just a dress.” I am the owner. It’s not designed to be tried on.”
The tone of Marjorie’s voice changed to one that was patient and patronizing, as is typical when speaking to youngsters. It will not be harmed by her. Our main concern is to see how it appears. It has always been something that Harper has admired.
Her eyes widened with delight as she rushed into the kitchen, and then Harper herself entered the room. “Could you? One time only? Please don’t worry about me.
I accepted against my better judgment, despite the fact that I was pushed by guilt and beaten down by pressure. However, just with one iron requirement in mind.
Once, she is allowed to try it on. at the very moment when I am standing there. With that being said, she is not permitted to wear it to her wedding under any circumstances.
Too fast, they reached a consensus. At that time, I ought to have known.
In the afternoon of that day, Harper came bustling into my room, holding a bottle of champagne in her hand and laughing like a child at Christmas. As she handled the dress, I remained still with my arms crossed, observing her every action with a stiff gaze.
She was able to wear it. Her contours were strained by the seams, and the bodice began to tug in an odd manner. She observed her reflection with a frown.
When asked about it, she said, “It’s gorgeous, but a little tight.”
“My mother was smaller,” I exclaimed in a direct manner.
After she removed it, I folded it myself, making sure that each seam was smooth, and then I brought it back into the box with a sense of reverence. I even included a sachet of lavender, which served as a kind of last blessing. I had the impression that wasn’t the end of it.
What a mistake I made!
A total of six months later, the day of the wedding arrived. It worked out well that I wasn’t a part of the bridal party. I proceeded to take a seat among the visitors in a modest manner, prepared to smile graciously throughout the day.
Music started playing. Everybody stood up. At the very top of the aisle, Harper appeared lovely and glowing, and she was wearing the bridal dress that belonged to my mother.
This is not a copy. A design that is not influenced by it. It is the dress. Modified, slaughtered, and desecrated in some way. It had been altered by raising the hem, adjusting the sleeves, and letting out the bodice with fabric that did not match. At the same time, it was not my mother’s outfit.
My chest became more taut. My heartbeat pulsed loudly in my ears. A faint and raspy breath came out of my mouth.
I relocated. Directly to the front row, where Marjorie was sitting, looking absolutely stunning in her custom-made gown.
“Why,” I yelled, “is she going to walk down the aisle wearing the dress that belonged to my mother?”
Unfazed, Marjorie did not flinch. When she looked at me, she had a calm expression that was almost smug.
“Because every aspect of it was ideal for her. Why will you squander your money on another gown? In the interest of Harper and the family as a whole, your mother would have desired this. It was a gift that I gave to her for her wedding.
“You gave it to me?” I was so angry that my voice shook. “That clothing was found in her will and was left to me. It belongs to me.”
She mumbled in a matter-of-fact manner, “You’re making a scene.” Harper is about to get her moment. Let’s talk about this at a later time.”
Nevertheless, there was no later.
As I moved into the aisle, I raised my voice to the point that everyone in the room could hear me.
It was my mother who owned this garment. She handed it over to me. It was taken from my wardrobe, altered without my consent, and then worn here today without my knowledge. That was all without my knowledge. A legal action will be taken against me because this constitutes theft.
There was a halt in the room. The pews were filled with gasps of surprise. Harper stumbled in the middle of her step, her smile disappearing.
One of my father’s eyes was down. He was aware. He had been aware from the beginning.
Suddenly, my aunt, who is the sister of my father, stood up. She stated in a forceful tone, “She is correct.” I believe that was Eliza’s dress. She is the owner of it, her daughter.”
There were other relatives who mumbled in agreement, and their gazes seemed to be directed toward Marjorie and my father.
With a tense tone, the groom shifted his attention to Harper. You are in need of a change. Right now”
The chaos broke out. Harper lost her composure and began to cry as the bridesmaids hurriedly escorted her away. Finally, Marjorie’s disguise began to fall off, and she began to hiss abuses at me. My father did not speak, and he did so while shrinking in his seat.
Harper’s tears reverberated like sirens as I followed them into the bridal suite where they were staying. As if it were garbage, the dress was strewn across the floor in a crumpled state.
As I walked out of the room with it in my arms, I carefully folded it after picking it up and folding it with the care it deserved.
There is anarchy, betrayal, and rage behind me. Peace lies in wait for me.
A few hours later, the ceremony resumed with Harper wearing a borrowed dress and her makeup smeared across her face. The magic had been removed. The fable was shattered into pieces. Throughout the reception, guests were heard whispering. They were destroyed in every way. The day was blighted for all time.
I went through my childhood room and removed everything that I owned throughout that week. That house is the last place I would ever put my faith in anything.
Whenever my father called, his remarks severed any connection that had been holding us together.
Although his tone conveyed more frustration than regret, he expressed his regret by saying, “I’m sorry.” “However, you did not have to create such a remarkable display. All of us were humiliated by you.
The words “She altered Mom’s dress without telling me” came out of my mouth with a breaking sound.
A dress is all that it is.
It’s just a dress. Those statements were the final straw that brought an end to our partnership.
It was several weeks before I ventured to unfurl the outfit once more. I shed more tears than I had since the burial when I saw the amateurish changes, which included the fabric that did not match and the seams that were ripped.
On the other hand, a ray of optimism appeared. During my search, I came across a tailor who specialized in restoring vintage gowns. She was a woman who knew that fabric can contain memories.
“I am able to repair this,” she whispered softly as she ran her fingertips over the surface of the harm. I will be able to get it back, but it will take some time.
That is exactly what she did. Over the course of several months, she labored, re-stitching each seam with time and regard, removing every negligent change that had been made. The clothing that belonged to my mother was whole once she had finished.
This time, I put it away in a garment bag that was suitable for a museum, secured it with a zipper, and put it away in a location where no one would ever touch it again.
I have a dream that one day I will be able to put it on myself and walk down the aisle toward someone who truly appreciates the fact that certain things are holy. a person who would never have the audacity to ask me to share something that cannot be share.
In every step that I take, my mother will be by my side. As I had always hoped and dreamt.
In certain battles, everything is at stake. However, some are worth battling for.
This belonged to me.
