**The Wedding Dress**
June 12th, 2024
“How dare you, Emma? How dare you try on my wedding dress?” Valerie’s voice trembled with outrage as she stood in the doorway, her fingers gripping the frame so tight they turned white.
Emma turned, the zipper halfway up her back. The white satin hugged her slender frame, cinching at the waist before cascading in soft folds to the floor.
“I—I just wanted to see if it might fit,” she stammered, flushing crimson. “Oliver said it would be alright—”
“Oliver said?” His mother marched forward, hands clenched. “My son has no right to give permission for my things! That dress is sacred to me! Do you understand? Sacred!”
Emma fumbled to undo the dress, but the zipper stuck. The more she tugged, the more stubborn it became.
“Please, Valerie, I can’t get it off—”
“Don’t you dare tear it!” The woman’s voice rose sharply. “If you ruin it, I’ll never forgive you! Hold still!”
Her fingers shook as she worked the zip free. Emma could feel the tension radiating from her—this wiry woman with her hair pulled back so tight it seemed to stretch her face.
“Do you even know what this is?” Valerie murmured, carefully lifting the dress from Emma’s shoulders. “It’s not just fabric. I married Oliver’s father in this dress. God rest his soul…”
Emma dressed in silence, pulling on her plain jumper. Through the mirror, she watched the older woman smooth each fold, checking for creases.
“I’m sorry,” Emma said quietly. “I didn’t mean to upset you. It’s just—the wedding’s next month, and I can’t afford a dress…”
Valerie spun to face her.
“Then why are you getting married? Expecting my son to keep you? He’s barely grown himself!”
“We love each other,” Emma whispered.
“Love!” Valerie scoffed. “Love won’t pay rent or feed children! I thought I loved too, and look what it got me—a lifetime of scraping by!”
Footsteps echoed in the hall, and Oliver appeared. Tall, fair-haired, he took one look at them and frowned.
“What’s happened? Mum, why are you so red?”
“Ask your fiancée what she’s been up to!” Valerie shoved the dress into the wardrobe and slammed the door.
Oliver looked between them. “Emma, were you trying on Mum’s dress?”
“I told you I wanted to. You said she wouldn’t mind—”
“I thought she’d be out,” he admitted sheepishly.
Valerie threw up her hands. “So you schemed behind my back! In my own home, with my belongings!”
“Mum, it’s just a dress—it’s not even being used!”
Silence fell. Valerie turned slowly, and Emma saw something shift in her expression—old pain, deep and raw.
“Not being used?” she said, too quietly. “I see. So I don’t matter either. My memories, what’s precious to me—none of it matters.”
“That’s not what I meant—”
“Know this, son,” Valerie straightened. “Live as you please. But my dress is off-limits. Save up and buy your own.”
She left, the kitchen door slamming behind her.
Oliver sighed. “Brilliant. She won’t speak to me for a month now.”
“Why is she like this? I didn’t do anything wrong…”
He rubbed his face. “It’s… complicated. After Dad died, she changed. She used to laugh all the time. Now? She keeps his things like relics. That dress… Sometimes she takes it out, strokes it, talks to it.”
“Talks to it?”
“Aye. She thinks I don’t hear. When I was little, I caught her once—telling it how much she missed him, what a good man he was… Creepy, but I get it.”
Emma sat beside him. “Should I talk to her?”
“Carefully. She’s in a mood.”
In the kitchen, Valerie chopped vegetables with violent precision.
“May I come in?”
“Do as you like,” came the terse reply.
Emma hesitated. “I wanted to apologise. Truly. My mum died when I was little, and my aunt who raised me… well, money’s tight. I thought—”
“Thought you’d freeload.”
“No! I thought maybe you’d… see me as family.”
Valerie paused. “Family? That’s earned, girl.”
“Then tell me how.”
She set the knife down. “Fine. Sit.”
The story unfolded—nineteen years old, sewing the dress with her mother, bead by bead. Oliver’s father carrying her over the threshold, calling her the loveliest bride he’d ever seen. Years passing. Then illness, loss.
“I wore it the week before he died. He looked at me… like he was saying goodbye.”
Emma swallowed. “I understand now.”
“Do you?”
“May I see your wedding photos?”
Surprised, Valerie fetched an album. Faded snapshots of a radiant bride and a dark-haired man.
“You looked beautiful.”
“We were.”
Emma took a breath. “What if… we made my dress together?”
Valerie considered it. “You’d need good fabric.”
“I’ve saved a bit.”
A pause. “Alright. But I won’t accept shoddy work.”
The next weeks were a blur of pins and seam-ripping. But slowly, progress. And stories—how she’d met Oliver’s father at the community hall, his hands skilled at everything. His death from overwork.
“I still love him. That’s why I fear Oliver will do the same—break himself for you.”
“We’ll share the load.”
Valerie gave a sceptical hum.
The dress neared completion—elegant, perfect.
On the wedding morning, Valerie fixed Emma’s veil.
“Ready?” Oliver called.
“Yes.” Valerie suddenly pulled Emma into a tight embrace. “Be happy, darling. And take care of my boy.”
“Darling?”
“You’re wearing my craft, joining our family. That makes you mine now.”
As they left, Emma glanced back. Valerie stood at the window, clutching her old dress, watching them go.
“Is she crying?” Emma asked.
Oliver smiled. “No. Just… letting go of the past. And meeting the future.”
**Lesson learned:** Love isn’t soft. It’s thread and hard seams, mended tears, hands that create and cling and, eventually, open.
