When my mom passed away five years ago, the only thing I asked for—out of everything she owned—was her wedding dress.
It wasn’t just lace and fabric. It was her. It held memories. Hope. Love. She once told me, “I hope you wear this someday, and feel how much I loved your father—before the world got complicated.”
And wow, did it get complicated.
Because two years after she passed, my dad met Lisa. Younger. Flashier. Loud. Always correcting my dad, always inserting herself like she’d earned a place in our history.
I tried to stay civil. But deep down, I knew—Lisa didn’t just want to marry my dad. She wanted to replace my mom.
Still, nothing prepared me for what I saw when I walked in early from work one day.
There she was—Lisa—standing in my bedroom mirror, in my mom’s wedding dress. Twirling like a giddy teenager. Pins in her hair. Humming some godawful pop song.
I dropped my keys.
Her reflection caught mine. She barely flinched.
“Oh, sweetheart,” she said with that plastic smile, “I didn’t think you’d be home yet!”
My voice came out low and shaking. “What the hell are you doing?”
Lisa smoothed the sleeves, admiring herself. “Trying it on! Your dad and I are getting married in a few weeks, remember? I thought… what better way to honor your mother’s memory? I mean—why waste money?”
“Take it off.” My hands were trembling.
Lisa just tilted her head. “Your father thinks it’s a lovely idea.”
I turned to him—standing behind her like a cardboard cutout. Silent. Useless.
“Dad?” I asked.
More silence.
That’s when I saw red. But not the kind of red you act on. No—mine came with a plan.
I swallowed my rage and forced a smile. “You know what? You’re right. Maybe Mom would’ve liked that.”
Lisa lit up. “See? I knew you’d come around!”
I told her I’d help her tailor it. “Mom’s dress was delicate,” I said. “You want it to be perfect for the big day.”
So, I worked with her. I pinned the fabric. Took her measurements. Even helped her steam it and hang it up in her room.
But what Lisa didn’t know was that I’d sewn in something special.
Not poison. Not ink. Nothing illegal.
But I had a family friend—a seamstress—sew in an industrial-grade dye packet, the kind used in bank money bags. Invisible unless triggered by moisture and movement.
I picked lavender. Mom’s favorite color.
And on the day of the wedding, as Lisa walked down the aisle under the bright sun, with cameras flashing and guests gasping…
Boom.
A slow bloom of purple dye spread from the seams, leaking out like watercolor down the white lace. Her expression turned from smug to horrified as gasps echoed through the crowd.
The dress was ruined. Stained in front of everyone.
She shrieked. Ran. My dad stood frozen, embarrassed.
And me?
I stood calm, arms crossed, beside my cousin who whispered, “Did you do this?”
I just smiled.
“Mom always loved lavender,” I said. “Now Lisa will never forget it.”
Needless to say… the wedding didn’t go as planned. And that dress? It’s back with me now. Folded away, wrapped in tissue, safe.
Just like it always should’ve been.