It began with a simple praise. “You’re so fortunate to have that gown,” she said. I didn’t think much of it—not until the next day, when the bag was missing… and my heart sank with it.
I can still see her, drenched and laughing like the rain was her playmate. My mom in her wedding gown, standing in a summer shower, the lace clinging to her arms, her veil twisted like ribbons around her shoulders. I must’ve been five when I first saw that picture.
“How did you handle getting soaked like that?” I asked, shocked at the idea. She just laughed, shook her curls like a wet dog, and said, “It was only a quick rain, honey. Then the rainbow came.”
That gown wasn’t just made from material and seams.
It was made from her. From the love she brought to her marriage, the joy she filled our home with, and the strength she left when she passed six years ago. She died when I was 18, but before she went, she made sure I had the gown.
And not just the original. A dressmaker, picked by Mom, updated it. The sleeves were refreshed, the shape modernized.
But the heart of it, the soft cream lace from her top, the scalloped edges she loved, the hidden buttons she fastened on her wedding day—all of it stayed. Waiting for me. Folded carefully in a bag, stored at the back of my closet, untouched.
Untouched for six years until her. Two months before my wedding, my sister-in-law, Alaric, burst into my apartment like she owned the place. “Oh my gosh, you have to see this outfit I’m wearing to the Sterling Gala,” she gushed, twirling, her big sunglasses still on indoors.
“It’s black. Velvet. Low neckline.
Sexy, but classy. My boyfriend almost fainted when he saw it.”
Alaric was always… intense. Desmond’s sister, a self-styled social butterfly, the type who made every space feel like her spotlight.
She flopped on my couch, kicked off her heels, and started scrolling her phone, barely letting me speak. “I swear, if I had your shape, I’d be unstoppable,” she said, tossing her blonde waves. Then she paused, eyes narrowing on the corner of my room.
The bag. Her voice dropped. “Is that the gown?”
I paused.
“Yeah. My mom’s.”
She stood, walked over slowly, fingers hovering like it was in a gallery. “Wow…”
“It’s not just a gown,” I said, stepping beside her.
“It was hers. She had it changed for me before she died. I’m saving it for my wedding.”
Alaric turned to me, a strange gleam in her eyes.
“You’re so lucky. I’d love to wear that once.”
I gave a tight smile and zipped the bag shut. “It’s not really… for wearing.
Not until my wedding.”
She didn’t answer. The next day, the bag was gone. I tore my room apart.
Called Desmond. Called Alaric. Messaged again and again.
No reply. Finally, at 3:12 p.m., she texted: “Don’t panic! I just borrowed it for the gala.
You won’t even notice ”
My stomach dropped. I called her. No answer.
I texted: “Alaric, you took my mom’s wedding gown without asking. That’s not borrowing. That’s taking.”
Three dots appeared.
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page.
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